


Damaged Goods

by jendavis



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU, Angst, Drama, Episode: s02e03 Runner, Episode: s05e19 Vegas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 64,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU:  Ronon's immune to the wraith.  Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert.  It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_No_.

John winces his eyes shut the moment they open, as if it's possible to hang onto the sky when the sterile white hospital ceiling forces itself into his awareness, but it doesn't work. The noises from the hall, the smells, the soreness underneath the painkillers and the haze in his head are too prevalent.

He's pretty sure he's not supposed to be able to do this. But nobody's watching. Nobody's telling him otherwise.

He's getting away with something he's not sure he wants in the first place.

\---

_He drags himself from the car, away from the wreckage of the silver bullet burning in the Nevada sun, instinct telling him to move but providing no destination. Sand clings his blood to his skin, sticky, but it's not enough to stem the flow that he's thankfully too gone to feel._

_He doesn't make it very far._

_But he did all right, here. Could've been worse. The world's still standing._

_He's allowed to just stop if he wants._

_He manages to roll onto his back, his limbs uncoordinated but finally relieved as he squints at the sky. There's no telling if the clouds are in focus or not, and he's losing the energy to try._

_It's fine_.

\---

What happened next, John has to piece together from nurses and doctors, the former too caring and nice, the latter too efficient. The two shots to the chest should've killed him. They didn't. End of story.

It's a few days before he even discovers that he'd actually been transferred from Nellis. Apparently the fact that he hasn't been in the Air Force in over a decade doesn't jar the nurses into revealing anything more. He's not even gone, and his paperwork's being lost in the shuffle.

It's a week before he starts itching nervously about payment. He'd quit the PD- _lit off with a few hundred grand in stolen cash, cruising east, no destination in mind_ \- and his insurance should've been cut off by now. At first, he thinks the nurses are coddling him when they tell him not to worry about it. It's not until Rosie- she works afternoons, has a kid named Jared, and that's about all he knows- gets so fed up with his questions that she brings him the paperwork.

His treatment's been covered. The account numbers are unfamiliar; he doesn't even recognize the insurance company.

He knows he should relax, and he would. But the traps getting tighter.

\---

Captain Hendricks shows up at the end of the first week, awkward and angry. The fact that John's no longer one of his detectives doesn't mean anything, not in the public face of things. The only difference is going to be in the shading. An ex-cop making a mistake, the department can distance itself from. A disgraced cop fucking up on his way out the door, that's a problem. The paperwork on his resignation hasn't even gone through, and Carmen over at the Review Journal doesn't know when to drop a story.

How she's figured out as much as she already _has_ is the usual mystery, but at least he's got warning that she's coming. He has no idea what to tell her; it seems the kind of thing Woolsey or McKay or someone be handling. Why they're not is anyone's guess. _Screw them anyway_.

By the time she shows up, he's ready to tell her everything. It would serve them right.

By the time he's opening his mouth, though, looking at Carmen sitting cross-legged next to his bed with her legal pad and tape recorder, he just can't do it.

"It was a meth lab," he decides as the words leave his mouth, because that's what it _has_ to be. He's already enough of a joke as it is, and she's known him long enough to _know_ it. The only reason she's here is because she's scraping the bottom of the barrel. It's her story, now, and she'll get it come hell or high water. Her glare is telling him as much.

He capitulates. It's not like he's giving away something he can't afford, for once. "A person of interest in one of my active ongoings was tied up in an FBI investigation. Pretty sure that's all I can tell you. The feds have jurisdiction on this one."

"Seriously?" Carmen shakes her head at him in resigned disbelief. "You're passing the buck on this?"

"I have to," he lies sympathetically. "You know how it is." But hell, it's not like she's going to get anywhere with this. "The agent in charge is a guy by the name of Woolsey. Get a hold of him, you'll have your story."

\---

Page three of Sunday's regional section, below the fold. John's name isn't anywhere near it. The FBI corroborated his story. Somehow. Meth lab. Explosion. Ties to a case in Oklahoma that no one would care about even if it _does_ exist. Nobody honestly gives a rat's ass about man blowing himself up in the desert.

_He wasn't a man, he was an alien, a wraith, and-_

Honestly, page three is easier to believe.

\---

It's another week and a half before he's allowed to go home with an armload of instructions, all the things he's not supposed to do. He takes a cab home and has to stop by the manager's place just to get in the door.

_Been in the hospital_ , he explains. _Injured on the job. Rent will be a little bit late, but it's coming_. It's nothing the manager hasn't heard before.

Finally home again, he stares at the cracks in the ceiling for days. He's practically a ghost. The smell from the kitchen garbage that's been sitting for three weeks has more or a presence here than he does. And there's nothing at all to drink.

John's fucked. No money, nowhere to go, and he can't work, not really, not yet. He's got more markers going out than coming in, and Mikey, at least, will probably be stopping by to collect before the week's out. Maybe enough of his car survived that he can get something for the scrap at salvage, but the engine had been on its last legs for three years already.

Somehow, he's pretty sure he's had this coming.

\---

The television's been on all afternoon; he can't remember watching a thing. Maybe he's just been asleep, maybe some part of his soul just bled out of him on the desert floor. When the doorbell rings, it takes too much energy to go and answer, but he does.

It's not Mad Marlene from upstairs, looking again for her cat that died three years ago. Instead it's Rodney McKay, standing squarely on the stoop with John's briefcase in his left hand, and the Johnny Cash poster rolled in his right. He hands both over.

Frowning, John looks inside the suitcase, knowing before it's open that the cash will still be there. How, though, and why- these things are beyond him, but he takes a guess.

"Payment for services rendered?"

"Something like that. Enough to cover your debts and coast for a while." McKay doesn't seem the sort for small talk, even if John _was_ feeling sociable. McKay nods, confident and unimpressed, because guys who hand over suitcases full of cash are _like_ that, John supposes.

"Yeah, well." John's honestly doesn't even know where to start. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Then listen to me. You take some time. Recover, whatever." McKay leans closer insistently. "You pay off your debts, and get yourself cleaned up. And then you call me. We might have some work for you." Getting no immediate response, he shrugs and backs off off the step, and John's voice seems too loud and awkward, echoing off the concrete, getting blown out into the parking lot.

"Doing what? There more aliens out there?" Maybe he's finally as cracked as Mad Marlene.

McKay's spreads his arms, grins widely. "Always, Detective Sheppard. Always."


	2. Chapter 2

Ronon doesn't stop to think about it. He's tried, but his mind shies away from it, wary of the precipice.

He's tried stopping, too, and he's failed every time. Instead, he increases his pace.

The wraith always come, and he always goes, and the ancestral ring is always right _there_ , just out of reach. There's never time to think, he strikes blindly at the controls, another world, another chase, maybe this time he'll have enough lead on the wraith to sit for a minute, find something to stop the bleeding.

It's been days. He's almost certain it's been days since he's eaten, but the mere _thought_ of food is enough to make him sick.

\---

The wraith are never far behind, but he's gained some distance, this time. Enough to listen, to look. Ease sideways into the trees, scanning forward towards the village beyond the hill. There's no movement, no sound beyond wind and trees and birds, too fast to catch. He's moving too slowly, too clumsily. He's scaring off the food.

He has to sew himself back together; he needs thread, water and fire. There's no telling if he'll find any of them once he clears the edge of the forest- doesn't honestly know whether he'll _reach_ the edge- but somehow, eventually, breathing too quickly, he does.

There's no movement in the village. It was culled a long time ago. Maybe he'll be lucky; maybe the villagers hadn't had enough time to run. Maybe they've left something behind. His chances are good; the village is large, spreads out for as far as he can see. Hundreds of houses and buildings and thousands of rooms and he's got no idea where to start, just lets his feet stumble towards it all.

The first building he reaches, it's too far gone to bother, so he crosses past, slipping around the corner and onto what used to be a street. Scanning carefully for movement, he sees the sign. _Hospital_. It's too far away, several blocks at least.

He's heading for it before he even realizes that he'd been able to read the sign's writing.

It's Satedan.

He should run, quick, before he draws the wraith any closer, but-

There's no one here left to die.

Somehow, _he's_ the last one standing.

\---

He can't think. Can't stop. Can't see through his watering eyes as he staggers onwards.

The front of the hospital is all that's standing, the back, it's gone, he should've known, should've remembered- _Melena, terrified and sad like she'd known what was coming, still surprised it was happening so soon as the blast hit. The fire and noise and_ -

There's no sign of that explosion, not in all the rubble from too many that came later. They might've come while he was still on the ground, before-

 _Stop_.

He'd stayed away for so long, certain that it wouldn't have been worth the risk.

In the end, it hadn't mattered at all.

\---

It's getting harder to see. The tears come as quickly as they're wiped away, and the strain of reorganizing concrete and brick and stone back into once-recognizable shapes that he can't even remember is a strain. He's got dark spots swimming in his vision from clenching his eyes too tightly against it all, and it _hurts_.

Shaking with the effort to even look again, he stumbles blindly into an alley, falls against a wall- not the best cover, but better than nothing and better than crossing to the house that _might_ have more than two walls still standing. His heel slips on something rolling from underfoot, sending him crashing to the ground. It's too dirty, has too many plants coming up between the cracks, and the bolt casing he'd slipped on is still spinning on the concrete.

He wonders if he'd been the one who fired it. Can't remember if he'd even _fought_ here, despite the years of dreaming it.

 _Breathe. Listen. Look_.

Across the street, he's almost certain, is the tavern where he and Tyre boasted and drank too many nights away, thinking that they could afford them. The memories of beer and laughter are too much, too clear, more real than the shattered glass in the window, because this, _here_ , what's in front of him _can't_ be real.

 _Breathe_.

He doesn't want to be here.

It's not worth getting up again.

He does anyway.

\---

The river's shallow, now, dry in places where it shouldn't be, but even from here he can see the space where the dam once stood. By the time he can find water that's not completely stagnant, he doesn't have the energy to go back, look for a bucket or a bowl or a cup, he just drinks with his hands, splashes it on his face. Falls into it and comes up sputtering but not clean.

It's not enough. His clothes are sodden, heavy, he's forgotten how to work the closures to get the coat off, his arms can't support the weight as he drops it on dry land, next to his blaster. The movement tears something open in his arm and the trickling alongside his ribs is too warm to be water. The stitches were infected anyway. It's for the best.

Maybe this is enough. He's home. Maybe his body will finally just _stop_.

He can't look at the wreckage any more, so he turns his face to the sky and lies back. His coat's the same pillow it's always been, but there's water running over his legs. The sky, at least, looks the same as he's always imagined it. Looks like it might start to rain, soon.

He's just so _tired_.

\---

The explosions in his head aren't real, they're just memories, dreams. It's the sound of the gate, as always, that wakes him. It's not until he hears something like an echo that he realizes he's spoken his curses aloud for the first time in remembered history; it's jarring, distracting enough that he doesn't even realize why it's happened before he's on his feet, clearing the riverside, dragging his coat heavily over his uninjured shoulder.

The bent metal and stone ahead sorts itself out, becomes the base of the bridge heading out towards the barracks- _waiting, one night, to find out if Melena would come and meet him, pulse racing and palms sweating_.

This time, though, it's not Melena waiting for him, coming for him, it's _wraith_.

He checks the too-low charge on his blaster, and runs.

\---

At some point, the rain starts, slowing his steps, making him heavy. He can abandon the coat, find something else later, he can still make it if he gets around this corner-

-he slips again. Lands hard on his knees. His elbow slips out from under him in the cold mud.

They've flanked him, surrounded him.

They've won.

\---

Trying to get away and failing utterly, he doesn't know his own thoughts, only the red, the fear and the anger. Gravel underneath as he's dragged onto the ship. Hands on him, stripping him of everything, shoving and dragging and pulling at him but he won't come apart. A gnarled fist in his hair jerks his head back painfully, the knife glinting as it comes _so_ close to his throat, but there's no relief, just another pull, and between the darkness and his swollen eyes, he can't _see_ , but he hears the clicking of the beads in his hair, coming from too far away.

The wraith has his trophy.

They can't feed on him, and don't even try, but they aren't killing him, either.

They never do. He'll never beg.

More shoving, falling back into something that doesn't quite give, and he forces his eyes open to find the wraith grinning at him wildly. He's pressing a clawed hand against the scar on Ronon's chest, holding him into place as the pod's tendrils wrap first around his ankles and wrists, his ineffective struggling pulling them tighter. The wraith's breath is still rancid, too cold on his damp skin, but he can't move away, can only keep his head up because of the tendrils winding through his hair, around his shoulders and throat. Through it all, that hand's pressed against his chest, right up until the membrane begins to form and starts to solidify.


	3. Chapter 3

It's been a month since his release from the hospital, and he really should have his head wrapped around it all by now. He's been face to face with an alien, but honestly, _that's_ the least of his concerns.

He's still alive. He's not a cop any more.

At least he's square with his creditors- Mikey's crew included. It doesn't matter that he'd only done so because he's too tired to think of a better plan. It has nothing to do- at _all_ \- with Doctor McKay's weird offer.

The invitation was probably nothing more than a consolation prize, a pitying, polite gesture. Maybe McKay had just looked at him and decided he'd needed something to hope for.

He's got enough cash left over that he doesn't have to worry about the rent for a few years if he's careful with it, doesn't mess up again. But with nothing but time stretching out ahead of him, the odds of a backslide are looking pretty good. He needs something to _do_. And Captain Hendricks' reluctant references aside, dishonorably discharged ex-airmen don't tend to have a lot of options.

McKay's card is still staring up at him from the coffee table, but he doesn't need to look at it to dial, he just needs to finish his drink. Jameson's a policeman's drink, but on the rocks is a little _too_ appropriate, and John really ought to switch to beer instead, one of these days.

It rings three times before someone- not McKay- picks up.

"I apologize, Doctor McKay is at this time unavailable," It's that Czech guy, John recognizes the awkward breaks in his speech, more than the voice, and he can't remember his name at all.

"That's all right. Any idea when he'll be around?"

"Is too early to tell with accuracy. I will pass it to him, Detective, that you called."

"Thanks," John signs off, tosses the phone back down on the couch. There's no need to panic, no reason to feel so stupidly disappointed. This was never going to go anywhere.

\---

Monday night, he can barely hear the television over the rattling of the air conditioner in the window, but his team's losing anyway. Another five minutes and he'll force himself up, back to the kitchen for more ice water. It's too hot for anything stronger, and he's already exhausted from sweating through his clothes.

He's startled back to full wakefulness by the ringing of his phone.

"Sorry I missed your call," McKay says, sounding like he's _far_ too energetic for this time on a Monday evening. "I was, ah-"

John catches himself grinning for no apparent reason. "On Mars?"

"Close enough. Anyway. You ready to come in from the cold?"

John stands, stretches, suddenly more awake than he's been all weekend. "It's a hundred degrees outside."

"Don't be obtuse," McKay mutters. "Just be ready at eight tomorrow morning. We'll send a car around."

\---

He's in the back of a black SUV for over an hour, and it takes another twenty minutes just to get through security. McKay's office, once he's led back, looks more like a laboratory. There are whiteboards and computers everywhere, and McKay's attention barely strays from them as he fills John in. General orientation. Paperwork. Meeting with Woolsey.

It's ten minutes before he takes a breath long enough for John to interrupt. "Okay, so why me? I mean, I'm not exactly a scientist-"

"The three people on staff who file my _supply_ requisitions have five doctorates between them, and they're _still_ idiots," McKay shakes his head, continuing in a tone that's trying not to be bitter. "But that's kind of the point. With our budget, knowledge and manpower, _you_ were the one to track the wraith down. Never mind the risk to life and limb-"

"Thanks for footing the hospital bills, by the way. You didn't have to-"

"Insurance coverage for unexpected circumstances? _That_ , we do better than anyone in five galaxies, but don't interrupt." Shoving John out of the way to get around to check something on the board, he continues distractedly. "It was actually your handling of the reporter that caught Woolsey's attention. He liked what you did, there, directing it back here without blowing it. Gave us a shot at containing the story before it got out. She hadn't even been on our radar, and she should have been. We don't even know why she was talking to you."

"I've gone off the record for her in the past," John admits. It's been a while since he's had anything resembling a job interview, but he's pretty sure this isn't how it's done. "And she's capable of putting two and two together."

"Hmm." McKay nods, distracted again by something on one of his computers. John waits impatiently until he's tapped a few keys before trying again. "So what am I supposed to be _doing_ , anyway?"

McKay looks up in confusion. Either he's just realizing he hasn't actually gone over that, or his attention's still on the screen. "Talk and walk," he says, confirming the latter as he strides towards the door. John has no choice but to follow, but at least McKay isn't so scatterbrained that he's forgotten the question. "It's come to our attention that we could use a new perspective. Some fresh blood, if you will." Turning a corner and stopping short at a door, he swipes his keycard and holds his face up to the retinal scanner to gain entrance. Once it's opened, though, he waves John in first. "See. In light of recent events, we're preparing for the inevitability that the wraith will start coming in larger numbers. Now. Planetary is not an overstatement when regarding the size of our operation. And while we are _very_ good at keeping the major threats far off the radar it's stupid to assume that nothing will fall through the cracks."

"Like a wraith running around Las Vegas?" John recognizes the chair room; there's a console glowing in the far corner that seems to have most of McKay's attention; he's muttering to himself while bringing up some sort of schematic that doesn't make any sense and shaking his head. Suddenly, he turns back.

"Exactly. If things go the way we're thinking they might, we're going to need people who are more attuned to what's happening on the ground."

"You mean you don't have that already?"

"Don't get started. At the root, though, the issue is that our forces all train and fight off-world, on different planets. The best defense is a good offense, as the saying goes. But they've kept the threats so far away that few have ever dealt with any sort of foothold situation on Earth. They'd have no idea how to deal with a wraith running around a Vegas casino."

John thinks he might get a word in edgewise, but McKay's hand is shooting to his ear. "Zelenka. The ZPM distribution for the southern array is fluctuating again. Gonna need you in on the resistance field, I've got a thing." John has the distinct impression that this is what much of McKay's life probably looks like. Turning back, he finds his place again without missing a beat. "Anyway. These past few months have only proven that the current contingency plans we've developed are a little monolithic. Or is it megalithic? I can never remember." McKay frowns, apparently pondering it. "Anyway, yes. That's you," he says, and apparently he's on the line again.

"Zelenka. Yes. Subroutine 18XB's going to have to wait until the cycle resets if you don't want to blow- _right_. Just tell me when." He's waiting for the response, tapping his foot impatiently, and John's getting tired of watching him.

"Listen. That's great and all, but I still don't know what it is that you think I can actually _do_."

John's leaning- not even _sitting_ on the chair- when it and half the dormant computers in the room suddenly start to glow. Jumping back, he notices a crackling hum in the air, so faint that he's not sure whether he's hearing it or feeling it, and McKay's spinning to stare at him, face breaking into a psychotic grin as he glances at the readouts pouring in from everywhere, even after John's jumped away from the chair, brushing his hands on his slacks.

McKay's laughing, and this is some kind of joke, some massive screw-up, the guy's insane anyhow, and-

"Believe me, Detective. You can do a hell of a lot more than even _I_ thought was." Stepping forward, he's gotten himself back under control, but it's a close thing. "Seriously. You're going to _love_ this."

\---

Between straining to hear the conversation McKay and Woolsey are having on the other side of the wall, and the massive stack of papers that comprise the confidentiality agreement he's initialing, signing, and barely even reading, the thrumming sensation he's had under his skin since touching the chair is finally starting to abate.

It's completely gone by the time he's passing McKay on the way into the office. Sitting across from Woolsey, waiting as he scans over what has to be every page of the hand-crampingly thick agreement, though, he can barely remember the sensation. Eventually, though, Woolsey nods, closing the folder, setting it down carefully. Smiling at John, he taps a button on his phone. McKay's barreling back in a moment later, balancing coffee, a laptop, and a stack of folders that look like they'll topple at any minute.

For now, though, McKay's casting a questioning look at Woolsey that's answered when Woolsey extends his hand to John.

"Welcome to the Stargate program, Detective Sheppard," he says.

" _Mister_ ," John corrects as they shake hands. "Better yet, just John."

"Right. Well. Nevertheless. On to business, I should think." Woolsey fiddles with the folder again, centering it perfectly in the middle of his desk, glancing warily at the mess that McKay's brought in with him. "That is, if we're all ready?"

McKay doesn't roll his eyes, but it's clearly a close thing as he sets his files down on the floor and nods.

"I have to brief the General in fifteen minutes, so we'll have to go with the broad strokes, here. I understand that McKay has filled you in on much of what's going on, but your real orientation will begin tomorrow morning. In the meantime, the situation is this." Woolsey's frowning to himself, clearly not the sort to speak or act without thinking first. Whether it's full blown OCD is anyone's guess. "I'm sure you remember the your altercation with the wraith quite clearly..."

John smirks. "I don't know if it's the kind of thing people tend to forget."

"Yes. Well. He managed to make a transmission via subspace before his device was, shall we say, _disrupted_. At first, we believed that the force of that disruption caused the signal to be bounced through subspace and into a different dimension. That being the case, we believed that while the threat was technically still out there, it was far beyond our capabilities to control that there was nothing to be done for it."

"And as far as _we_ were concerned, the threat to _us_ was minimal," McKay interjects, sipping at his coffee. "Thing is, subspace is complex, which is why you don't see American Airlines offering faster-than-light travel. _Although_ -" McKay's impending tangent is cut off by a gesture from Woolsey, and it momentarily derails him. When he does recover, he doesn't sound half as enthusiastic as he had. "Right. Anyway. It turns out that some of the signal, it managed to bleed through back into our own dimension. And it looks like someone's heard."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm assuming you know about our base in the Pegasus galaxy," Woolsey glances at McKay to confirm. "We received a data burst from them several days ago. Their long range sensors have indicated that a portion of the wraith presence in their area is breaking off. It seems that they are headed on a trajectory that will bring them to our doorstep."

The latter part of that statement, John finds, is just too big to deal with. "Only a _portion_?"

Woolsey nods grimly. "Yes. The wraith are as fractured as any other sentient species, a fact we've been able to use against them on more than one occasion, turning them against each other. However, while they're prone to infighting, there is one unifying factor at work. _All_ of them, across the board, view us as food." He lets it sink in. "The few ships currently coming, they're not likely to share our location widely."

John sees where this is going. "But they're as capable of changing allegiances and sharing information as _we_ are."

"Precisely."

"Okay," John nods to himself. "So what's the plan?"

"The plan," McKay snorts, "is to _come up_ with a plan."

"This will be primarily a military operation." Woolsey glares. "We've got a few tricks up our sleeves, including tools and reinforcements from Pegasus. Some of them are arriving in through the stargate as we speak, and we'll have air support entering Earth's orbit within twenty four hours. The Daedalus, thankfully, was already fifteen days into its return trip when we got word that the wraith were moving out."

"How much lead time do we have?"

"A month and a half, if the wraith are able to sustain their current speed."

"That's not so bad." John's shrug sends McKay into a surprising amount of sputtering.

"Not so _bad_? Sheppard, you dealt with _one_ wraith. This isn't just a few cruisers we're talking about here- and _that_ would be bad enough, believe me. We're talking about full _hive_ ships, _plural_ , and hundreds, if not _thousands_ of wraith. The only reason they haven't wiped us out already is that they _didn't know where we were_."

"Right. Sorry." John nods hurriedly, raising his hands. If the odds weren't clear enough, the manic tone in McKay's voice would've gotten it through. "So we've got weapons and manpower and a ship," he studies Woolsey. "What about those other tricks up our sleeve that you were talking about?"

His answering grin his thin, but genuine enough. "Well, McKay, here, who is not averse to the sound of his own voice, as you may have heard earlier, he seems to believe that you're a natural." It's impossible to read the weight in Woolsey's words, but next to him, McKay's nerves are shifting again, swerving from irritation to excitement

"Literally," he smirks. "You've got the strongest gene I've ever seen."

"That's great," John blinks. _No_ , that doesn't make any sense, not in light of the conversation they're having. "But what are you _talking_ about?"

"Well," Woolsey raises an eyebrow, checking his watch as a sudden knot of dread starts to well up in the pit of John's stomach. "To put it succinctly..."

McKay, however, is practically bouncing in his chair, which is honestly only making it worse. He looks _manic_.

"You wanted to know what you can do? How does taking out wraith hive ships just by _thinking_ about it sound?"


	4. Chapter 4

His eyes flash open, wide and panicked and he can't see anything, can't _breathe_ , but it feels like he's falling when the cold air slams into him. There's a painful wet pulling, dragging up from inside his throat, gagging him as the mass withdraws. The tendrils wrapping his neck and arms and legs in place slide away, slowly, dragging too much skin with them as they go.

Ronon chokes back to life, falling to the floor in a soaked, shivering heap.

Curls around himself for a minute, just _breaths_ , tries to stop the shaking. Slowly, he's becoming aware. The boots in front of his face aren't moving in to kick, they're still. One wraith and four, no, _five_ drones are standing guard. Watching him.

If he attacks now, they'll win, easily.

They'll always win.

He forces his arms to move, but when he pushes himself up, his palms skid out from underneath him, his legs splay awkwardly. Wraith laughter rasps mockingly above him, startlingly near as he tries to find some kind of footing. The wraith steps back, out of reach before Ronon even makes it to his knees.

"Your injuries have healed, but you need strength." the wraith cajoles, his voice tinged with an approximation of humor. "Or this will be very dull indeed."

A rough bowl, filled with meat, some fruit, is shoved towards him, rattling across the floor and nearly toppling over. Ronon makes no move to reach for it, not for fear of poison, but for the probable _lack_ of poison. The wraith feed until there's no one left in the world to kill, but if they can't feed, they _toy_ with their prey.

"Eat, or we will _feed_ you."

Whether it's instinct to avoid starvation or the last vestiges of pride that motivates him, he'll never know. He reaches into the bowl and begins to eat. The cold meat is bland, some unidentifiable bird, and sucks the moisture from his mouth, but he'd been expecting to find it rancid.

He keeps his head down, eyes on the floor as he eats, but he can feel the wraith watching him, amused by his obedience. _This isn't for them_ , he promises himself. Swallowing, he reaches blindly for the fruit.

The taste is _terrifying_ , the juice sweet and dark edging towards tart, the texture rich and wet, almost overripe. Hundreds, maybe thousands of planets, and he's almost certain that kofals only grow on Sateda. Eleven years since he's tasted it. He doesn't know when he stopped dreaming of the orchard behind his grandmother's house, or when it was that he last bent over, huddled against the rocks as the hunger cramps tore through him, sick and starving. He'd stopped torturing himself with the thought of it years ago, forced himself not to remember, not to _want_.

And the wraith are feeding it to him, ever creative in their antagonism.

The last time the wraith had captured him- three, no four years ago, on a world where the sun shone too brightly, where he'd had to slather himself in mud to keep his skin from burning- they'd brought him out of stasis, still ill from the heat, and set out a bucket of fish and green leaves that meant nothing but nourishment. He'd killed them all, one by one, over the next three worlds.

This time, he only manages about half of the food in the bowl before shoving it away. He knows what's coming next.

\---

The drones keep him cornered when the wraith disappears, and moments later, he feels the ship start to breathe. Systems are coming back on line, they're getting ready to depart. There's just one last thing that has to happen first.

When the wraith returns, though, he's distracted, barking out commands to the drones, and Ronon's prodded quickly down a winding corridor, towards the back of the ship. Finally, the membrane hatches begin to part and he's blinded by harsh, bright sunlight and too much _green_. By the time he's got the ground beneath his feet, the scenery's sorted itself out into grass and trees and rocks and sky, and there's a red flag halfway up the hill, tattered and sickly, but he knows what he'll find when he gets there.

There's no gloating, no crowing from the wraith; he's already turning away, heading not back inside but around. Two of the drones break off to follow him, and several others are stepping out through the hatches further up the ship.

He thought they'd give him more of a head start than this. He's boring prey, this way.

He runs. He always does.

This is his life.

\---

Something's not right. The last time they'd caught and released him, they hadn't stuck around, afterwards, hadn't spread out into the forest. They're looking for something.

And as Ronon makes his way towards the flag, scanning ahead and around, it's starting to feel like something's looking back. But he sees nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it's just the stasis, wearing off. Messing with his head.

There's a drone not far behind him; if Ronon was the target, he'd be attacking by now, but instead he's edging along into the treeline. Two more are following him, their pace quick.

Ronon hastens his steps. He's close enough to the flag, now, that he can see his blaster and knives sitting on top of his coat. They're sun-warmed when he picks them up, pieces of himself falling back into place, tools for a war he's _so_ sick of fighting. The last knife slides into place in his belt when he hears the first explosion.

\---

There's gunfire, now, too. It's not wraith weaponry; someone else is here and if they shoot again, Ronon will be able to track their location. In the meantime, he dashes forward, glancing back over his shoulder to see the drones regrouping, looking about, trying to find the source of the gunfire. Another volley comes from beyond the woods, and they break off, squads of five and six, spreading back into the trees. Others go around, preparing to flank their quarry as they rush towards the ring.

Ronon checks his blaster- he's got maybe two, maybe three kill shots left, a few dozen if he sets it to stun and lets the two sides thin each other's numbers before he reaches the fight.

He listens carefully. The gunfire's coming at a faster rhythm, chaotic, while the stunner blasts are starting to relent, but it's not a surrender. The drones' strength comes not from their skill or their tactics, but from the number of their forces, and their connections to the hive. They never stop, and they never fire blindly. They're returning fewer shots because they've already cornered their targets. They're closing in.

The gunshots provide enough sound cover that Ronon doesn't have to quiet his step as he increases his pace. He ducks into the drainage and follows its banks up, dodging roots and low-hanging branches until he's nearly crested the hill, dropping into a low ready crouch to wait for his opportunity.

What he finds, though, is something else entirely. Most of the drones- and the wraith, now, too- are either lying on the ground, or in the process of falling. Scanning past them, he finds what he's looking for, camouflaged in the trees. Four people- human, by the looks of it- are gathered together, backs towards one another as they pick off the last of the drones as they make their way backwards. They're retreating, heading cautiously towards the ring.

Ronon eases back, down into the drainage and runs silently along the side of the ridge. He has until he reaches the far edge of the trees to consider his options.

He could hang back and wait for them to leave. But it's been years since he's seen weaponry that can cut through drone armor that efficiently, and he's going to need something once the blaster depletes its charge.

He could turn around, head back towards the city. Maybe he'll finally go mad for good this time, or maybe he'll find something useful, stockpile some food.

He's got just enough time for an ambush; it's only four against one, and if there's good cover, it'll be quick. Stun them, capture their weapons, and go through the ring. Keep running.

Ronon skids to a stop, a few spans short of the edge. They're still a good distance behind and to his left, but they're coming, and he's got to decide _now_. Crouching, he holds himself steady as he watches the humans drawing near, moving faster now that the immediate wraith threat is gone.

Breathing in the scent of the only forest that's ever smelled right, he hefts his blaster.

The humans' weapons are strong enough to cut through wraith armor, and own skin isn't half that tough. All he has to do is miss.

He's on Sateda- he's _home_ , now- and he'll never have to leave again.

 

 _TBC..._


	5. Chapter 5

The first two days, John's so far out of his depth he doesn't honestly believe he'll ever get his head above water. It's briefings and meetings and a videoconference with an archaeologist, of all people, who tells him more about the stargate than he can ever hope to take in. It's afternoons spent in a chair that seems almost sentient, that always feels like it's trying to talk to him through his skin. It's diagrams of the galaxy floating above his head, and strange symbols he doesn't understand floating above his head. It's paperwork by the ton.

It's also being startled into nearly blowing up a helicopter, inbound from Colorado.

\---

The rest of the afternoon is spent trying not to flash back too hard on his court martial as the debate rages around him.

He would've take the chopper down, easily, but the drone that he'd fired had fallen short, apparently in response to his panicked thoughts when he'd realized what had happened.

"Don't worry about it too much," McKay assures him, dragging him out of the conference room once Woolsey's cavalierly decided to chalk this up as a rookie mistake. "We've got people here who've blown up _stars_. This doesn't even rate. Though you probably shouldn't let it happen again."

John doesn't even realize how relieved he is- or how worried he'd been- until they reach the cafeteria.

It's four in the afternoon, and there's no way _everyone_ at the facility's decided on coffee at the same time.

"What's going on?"

"The Daedalus is here. Had some trouble on the way over, I expect. They were slated to arrive yesterday. That helicopter you nearly took out, that's the welcoming party from SGC." McKay scans the room. "And there they are! Let's go introduce you."

Colonel Mitchell shakes John's hand and brushes aside his near-death experience with astounding ease, once McKay explains who John is.

"On this week's scale of one to ten, that's barely a three," Mitchell says, glancing away at the front of the room again, where the tables have been pushed aside, the way everyone else keeps doing. McKay's pushing through the crowd towards Woolsey, but whatever's going on, it doesn't look like the sort of thing he's supposed to be tagging along on.

"Well, it's only Tuesday." Apparently, this is his life now. Mitchell looks like he's about to say something, but there's a glowing at the center of the room and John turns to stare at it, as slowly it sorts itself out into arms and legs and shoulders. Two men, two women, and what looks to be a wraith, long matted hair, on his knees. It's only when the guns are drawn all around him that John realizes that half of the people standing in the cafeteria are armed, and they're aiming at the threat.

There's too much noise up at the front to hear what's going on. Woolsey and McKay are stepping forward, Woolsey shaking hands, McKay talking animatedly with one of the men. He's avoiding the eyes of the blonde woman, and if this were a social setting, not whatever this is, John would guess that there's some awkward personal history there. The brunette woman and Woolsey are already heading out the door.

John's got a surprising amount of questions, mostly along the lines of _what the hell just happened?_ What he asks instead is, "Mitchell. Who are those people?"

"The one with Woolsey is Doctor Weir. She's our main ambassador on Atlantis. The one arguing with McKay is Doctor Parrish. He's a botanist. Blonde woman is Lieutenant Laura Cadman-"

"She and McKay have a thing?"

Mitchell's eyebrows shoot up, and he smirks, but his eyes are on the other man already. "Don't ask. Anyway, guy with the gun is Lieutenant Colonel Evan Lorne." There's something about the intonation, or maybe Mitchell's grin, that gives the _don't ask_ portion of his statement more weight than it probably should, but really, what John's curious about is the prisoner that they're dragging to his feet as the guards swarm in even closer. He's well over six feet, long, matted hair, and he looks human enough, but it's obvious that the cuffs restraining his arms and the chains on his feet are the only things preventing his attack.

"What's with the big guy? Another wraith?"

"We honestly have no idea," Mitchell smirks, eyes finally leaving Lorne for just a moment. "But if the rumors are correct, he's your first assignment."

\---

These people don't use wraith stunners; he's never awake when they move him. This time, this _third_ time, now, he wakes alone on a floor, in another locked cell.

The first one had been blue, with a bed and a blanket and thick glass windows looking down over the ocean from a dizzying height.

"Let me go," Ronon had told his captors, drawing himself up, trying to hide the shaking. They'd disarmed him already. He was no threat to them. "Let me go, or the wraith will eat your world."

\---

The second cell had been cold, made entirely of metal, all the seams welded shut. There were areas that sounded more hollow when he hit them, but no weaknesses to exploit; even the sink and toilet in the room were too solidly attached to be of use, and he'd been too exhausted to try. Sometimes, he could sense movement on the other side. He was on a ship of some kind; possibly on the ocean, possibly in the sky. Beyond the wall, the footsteps of others could be heard, and few of them stopped at his door.

Food had been slipped through an opening at the bottom of the door at what must've been regular intervals, but he'd lost his appetite. He'd folded himself onto the cot welded into the wall and tried fitfully to sleep, to think, but he was so tired, too warm; the fever had been setting in again. The cold metal floor had proven more comfortable, and he'd stayed there for what felt like weeks. The lights overhead had never gone out.

Sometimes the door would open. Four or five people in black uniforms would point stunners at him. Always, they had the same questions.

"Why did the wraith release you?"

Ronon had almost felt like laughing. He could feel the tracker underneath his skin, winching at his back.

\---

This cell is the smallest he's seen yet, made of deceptively strong glass. He can see other cells, running down the the room in rows, all empty. The lights are low, and the darkness is nearly comforting until he realizes that he's not alone. There's a _wraith_ here, probably a prisoner of war. These same people had killed dozens of them without thought- he'd _seen_ them- and yet one still _lived_.

It's confusing. Maybe it's there as a show of bravado, or maybe it's being kept for trade. Which means that these people are the sort to make deals with _wraith_.

It takes an unusually long amount of time for the wraith to notice Ronon's presence, and when he does, he begins to shout, endless streams of mad nonsense that go nowhere, and goes unanswered.

Ronon doesn't know how much time passes. The darkness is hypnotizing and his body wants to sleep.

Eventually, there are footsteps coming out of the darkness, and three sets of boots landing in front of his cell. One set belongs to Lieutenant Colonel Lorne, who'd often stood outside his cell, asking stupid questions. The woman standing next to him, he only recognizes by sight. Her long, reddish hair is pulled back and she always seems close to laughing. The last is a black-haired unarmed stranger. He's not dressed like the other two, and he stares at Ronon with eyes too nervous and wide. They're talking about Number Eight for several minutes before Ronon realizes, suddenly, that they're discussing _him_.

Ronon pretends not to listen, keeping his eyes closed as the three continue their conversation. The man with the dark hair will be coming back to _work Eight_ , whatever that means. The prospect's clearly making him nervous, he's asking Lorne too many questions. Something about medics, something about doctors. Every so often his eyes dart towards the other end of the cells, where the wraith is staring back at them, muttering to himself quietly.

He'll be an easy one to manipulate. There's a chance of escape.

But then the dark haired man steps closer.

\---

Inside the cell, there's a mass of leather and hair that's unfolding itself to regard the three of them; it takes John's eyes a moment to sort and identify hands, face, eyes. Between the long dreadlocked hair and the furious eyes cutting through him like knives, John's suddenly thankfull that he's on the other side of the wall.

"So he's _not_ a wraith?" he asks Lorne. And jumps back, startled when inside the cell, Eight lunges towards him with a growl, striking the glass with his fist. _Shatterproof_ , John reminds himself.

Lorne's expression shows surprise, wariness, but there's no fear. "No. Far as we can tell, he's human. But like as you can see, it looks like he's _allied_ with the wraith."

Another growl, and the man's retreating to the far side of the cell. It's only six feet away or so, but his rigid back's turned against them. It's all the distance he's physically capable of getting, and it looks like the movement might be costing him.

"You sure about that?" Alien or not, John hadn't missed the flash of rage on his face as he'd moved.

Lorne shrugs. "We've asked. He won't answer. Only things that came out of his mouth when we first brought him in were to let him go, or the wraith would come destroy us."

John considers the cells. "So you're testing his theory, then?"

Lorne shakes his head as he shrugs. "Something like that. You know, that was the first time I've seen him react to anything since we got him in holding."

John shrugs. Not all reactions are created equal. "Maybe you just needed to insult him more." He's not ready for Lorne's next question.

"You ever do any time as a POW?"

John blinks. Even now, he's not ready for the thousand directions his brain is suddenly going. "Yeah. Afghanistan."

Lorne's eyes shoot up for just a fraction of a second; he's probably the only person in the facility who hasn't read John's file. Turning back to the Eight, he nods. "Then you know that he's probably feeling plenty of insult as it is."

\---

This is the first conversation John's ever had with an alien, and he's got no idea how to begin.

"My name's John Sheppard. You are...?"

Nothing. Cadman shifts, either to cover a smirk, or settling in for the long haul that this is definitely going to be.

"This is where you tell me your name."

"Number Eight," the alien says after a long moment, without glancing up from John's hands. It tells John more than he'd probably intended.

One, he's aware. He knows what they're calling him, and it's a statement of fact. He's a guy who deals what's in front of him. Efficient. No bullshit, even when he's lying. He doesn't give anything away that he can't afford. Unfortunately, it's the same kind of behavior he usually saw in interrogations of people who'd actually later been proven guilty

John sighs. "Okay, fine. Play it that way if you want."

It's not progress, though. John might as well be talking to the wall for all the reaction he gets as he goes on. His offers of something to drink or food or the doctor land with about as much interest as every direct question he asks.

Eight doesn't trust him. He's broadcasting that he just doesn't care, that he's not bothered. That he's not feeling threatened.

It's all an act. His eyes won't meet John's for even an instant. He's staring at John's hands too hard. The sound of the sound of the elevator when Lorne eventually leaves, Cadman's shifting her weight to her other foot, none of this distracts Eight. It's like he's too frozen.

It's going to take a while to thaw him. John needs to hurry up and learn his tells. Body language, he realizes belatedly, might be different for aliens. The guy's from another planet, and yeah, John's heard about the stargate's translation protocols, how it's processed in the listener's brain, but that shouldn't account for the facial expressions when the alien isn't even _speaking_

After nearly an hour, the only two words he's gotten out of the alien are the ones he'd been assigned, the ones he'd repeated back when they'd first started.

Number Eight.


	6. Chapter 6

Of course, Woolsey wants a full report in the conference room right after he's done. He hasn't even been able to process it all himself, yet, and now he's got to brief not only Woolsey, but Lorne, Doctor Weir, and McKay as well.

"So. What do we know about him?"

"Well," John knows he's prevaricating. "He's not really talking, yet."

"Ah," Woolsey nods. "So you learned nothing."

"Not necessarily," John's interrupted as Dr. Keller slips in through the door and takes a seat at the end of the table with an apologetic grin. John takes the distraction to gather his thoughts. "Well. Eight's a big guy, strong, but he's been starving himself...which you probably already know. He's had the walls closing in on him for weeks now, so he's wary and nervous. It's obvious enough through his body language, keeping his shoulders and body stiff, not looking me in the eye. He wouldn't talk, but kept staring at my hands, trying to read me."

Doctor Weir's head snaps up, questioning. "Isn't it easier to read people if you look them in the eye?"

"Yeah, if you care about what they're saying, and I don't think Eight does. If you're looking for a physical threat, or a weakness to exploit, though, you might focus on the most obvious source for it to come from."

"But Cadman was there with a stunner and sidearm," Lorne points out.

"But she wasn't talking. What little control there was to be had in our interaction, I was the one holding it, so he was taking his cues from me. I'd guess he's had some training, or a lot of experience fighting."

"Yeah, well," Lorne replies, "no offense, but we could've gotten that just from looking at him whenever he wakes up in a new cell."

"Well. He definitely isn't feeling so hot. By the end of it, he was looking pretty exhausted. He didn't exactly drop his defenses, but he got a lot less careful about trying to hide them. He wasn't responding physically to anything I said, whether it was offering food or medical aid, or grilling him about his involvement with the wraith. And the wraith _are_ a definite sore spot with him. He was insulted when I identified him as one, and the few times he'd glance away had been to glare in the wraith's direction, as if he didn't want it out of his sight."

"You said he's not feeling so well," Keller interjects, her voice full of concern. "We haven't been able to get him under a scanner since he's arrived here."

"About that," John hesitates. There's no way to say this without sounding critical, but Dr. Weir is already addressing it.

"There'd only been enough time for a cursory examination on Atlantis before we picked up the wraith suddenly coming for Atlantis. Our priority was to get the Daedalus out of Atlantis airspace due to extensive damage sustained several weeks before in a prior altercation." She smiled. "And before you ask, no, we weren't leaving the city without defenses. With the ship no longer in orbit over the planet, plan A, cloaking the city from their sensors, worked beautifully."

"And you thought he'd gotten a signal off, so you took Eight with you," John finished.

"Correct," Lorne said. "Once we'd left orbit and made the first jump, we got reports from Atlantis that the wraith ships had already turned around, like they'd lost the scent. Well before they should have if they were scanning for a cloaked city. Once that was proven, it was determined that the safest course would be to keep him in isolation, keep an eye on him, and only approach him for treatment when, well..."

"When he was too weak to fight back," Keller says, a little bitterly, but she's quick to soften the blow with a sympathetic smirk. "It never happened, and now he's here. And since he is, I'd like to know when I can take a look at him?"

Surprisingly, even Woolsey's eyes turn to John. "He seems like he's doing okay. Not at the top of his game, probably, but he could definitely still pose a threat. If we're looking to get any information out of him, we're going to have to go about it carefully, and since I'm guessing that he won't react well to being stunned and waking up on an operating table, I'd say you give me a little more time with him."

"Good faith gesture," Weir nods in understanding as she and Woolsey exchange a look. "What about the wraith?"

"What about him?"

"When we captured Eight, we went through his belongings. There was nothing that could be used as a transmitter, so it's likely that if he was able to get a signal out to the wraith, it was done over some sort of psychic link. We know the wraith have this capability, which is why we brought Eight to Earth, rather than leaving him in Atlantis where he's more likely to come within their range. Eight's cell is on the same level as our resident wraith in hopes that he might give something away. Did you notice anything strange about the wraith's behavior?"

"I've been going over the camera footage," McKay says, spinning his laptop around so John can see the row of cells, mostly dark. The camera's aimed at the wraith's cell, but he's pretty sure that's his profile far back in the shot. He hadn't even known there'd been a camera there. "The wraith's curious, watching the activity, but doesn't seem any more or less aware than he usually does. We're going to be monitoring the feeds just to be sure."

Woolsey sighs. "So. This is about what I expected, to be honest. We'll stay the path, unless anyone has any suggestions on how to proceed?"

John's not sure he's included in the statement, but he raises his hand, slightly. "Maybe. Ah. Next time I go in, I think I might get better reactions if we're not on opposite sides of bulletproof glass."

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Lorne is dubious, too, but it's McKay who voices it.

John's honestly starting to rethink it, but this isn't his first rodeo. He's interrogated murder and rape suspects. He knows when to push and when to ease up. What he says instead, though, is, "I know we're not going to see any progress unless something changes."

"Good enough for me," Dr. Weir says, and it's almost funny, because John has no idea if what he's just said is half as realistic as he needs it to be.

\---

It would've been handy to have read the reports before meeting Eight the first time.

Lorne's team had run across Eight on a world called Sateda, which they'd previously found abandoned, probably after a culling. Atlantis had sent a M.A.L.P.- _kind of a remote control video camera and weather station,_ according to one of the emails McKay had sent him- ahead and found that a wraith cruiser had landed on the planet. As that was unusual, Lorne's team had been dispatched to run recon, and do what damage they could in the event that the craft was down for repairs. They'd encountered a wraith patrol, taking out several at once with a grenade before switching to guns as the wraith scattered.

Lorne's exact words are this:

 _We first caught sight of the individual designated Number Eight before the wraith patrol found our position; he was being led off the cruiser by what seemed to be the head wraith, and several drones. As the wraith are not known for the release of victims or prisoners, it was noted and plans were discussed between Dr. Parrish and Lt. Cadman to detain the individual for questioning..._

 _… lost visual on Number Eight while engaging wraith drones..._

 _… once the wraith threat was thus neutralized, our team started back to the gate on foot. At the edge of the forest, near the gate's location, Number Eight broke cover and attacked us, firing three blasts from a stunner device which we have not previously encountered, (and which has been stored and identified for further study at A51 upon arrival), all of which fell short by several feet. Understanding the volley as a series of warning shots, I stunned him and decided to bring him back, following all quarantine protocols, as (1) he may prove a useful source of information (2) it seemed obvious at the time that the man was not behaving rationally and may have been in need of medical attention._

There are other reports, from Atlantis that report on Eight's condition. The first is a physical description, filed in the database next to his designation as Number Eight. Height, approximate weight. Scars, marks and tattoos. The entry is as familiar as any booking sheet, as is the summary below describing the process of transferring him into custody. He'd been stripped and searched while unconscious, and a cursory medical examination was given by a Dr. C. Beckett, who'd advised dressing him again in his own clothes, citing the unwarranted addition of psychological traumas to Eight's condition upon waking.

Eight had woken briefly during transport to holding, fighting the guards; they'd stunned him again immediately and secured him in the cell.

From the way it reads, the situation might've been more dramatic than that; bookings everywhere, apparently, are routine in their chaos.

Another report, from Weir this time, cites discussions during a staff meeting, where the possibility of Eight's being a W.W., and John has to bring up the chat program to tap McKay again for clarification.

 _Sheppard- WW= Wraith Worshipper. WW's are known to make deals with the wraith in return for a lot of things. Not being eaten, for one, or for favors. The wraith not only feed off human life energy, but they can give it back, too. Make someone practically immortal. Deal with the devil kind of thing._

It's strange, the things that John's having trouble with. Aliens? Check. A military base on an ancient city in another galaxy? Sure. Psychic furniture that doubles as a weapon? Fine. Striking deals with space devils?

John suddenly needs to stand up, to move, walk around. Get some coffee and wrap his head around this, but he still doesn't have a clue by the time he bumps into Dr. Keller, coming out of the cafeteria.

"So, she grins. "How's it coming, in the-" she glances down at her watch, like she's well aware of how awkward and overeager she's coming across. "Two hours since I've seen you?"

"All right, considering. Still looking for probable cause."

The smile drops from her face, replaced with something he can't quite identify, but it looks rueful, sober. A little angry. "That's a good way of putting it. Only thing here is, given the situation, _innocent until proven guilty_ is a luxury they- _we_ haven't been able to afford."

John nods. He hasn't been so long out of the Air Force that he can't remember the stakes and politics that came into play. His own tribunal would've been proof enough of that even if he _hadn't_ spent so long face to face with enemy combatants. His first few years as a cop, it had actually been a problem. But he'd learned.

 _Guilty until proven innocent_ wasn't necessarily better. Just easier.

\---

The glass walls are the cruelest. Ronon's shaking too much to do more than imagine the sound of them shattering around him, but if he squints, he can pretend that they're not even there, that there's nothing holding him here but his own free will. And that turns out to be _so_ much worse. He never manages to squint hard enough to block the wraith from his view.

Any minute now, he's sure, somewhere up in the building, a button will be pressed. The doors to their cells will open, the wraith will come for him. The wraith will try to _feed_ on him, clawed hand splayed against his chest, raking his skin open, digging in deeper when his first attempts don't work, another hand around his throat, maybe, or braced against his shoulders, and Ronon will close his eyes and pray, but it just. Won't. Stop.

 _Maybe the hand around his throat will tighten, angrily, send the edges of Ronon's vision blurring red, then finally black._

 _The wraith will be too mad to understand what's happening at first. Once Ronon's stopped breathing, he'll kick Ronon's body over, find the tracking device under his skin, curious and prodding, still looking to scavenge from the kill. Maybe the wraith won't even bother, he'll just slip out of the cell and wait for the outer doors to open, and he'll take the fist guard out. The second will be easier, once the first's life has been devoured. And he'll make his way up into the building, one by one by one, growing stronger, and he'll call his brothers, the hives will descend, and miles above Ronon's cooling body, this world will _end_. _

Ronon snaps back to full wakefulness forcefully, his head crashing into the cell wall hard enough to send bolts of pain down his neck. His back spasms; he can feel every twisted point of the tracker ripping at his spine, and he pants, desperate for air.

He'd been dreaming again. He's not even sure it had been a nightmare.

It's better to curl up in the corner, warmer, this way, with his knees up to his chest and his eyes on the door. He can see the wraith out of the corner of his eye but forces himself not to stare, not to give in.

The food the soldiers had brought him is still on the tray, a bottle of water next to it. His stomach aches, it's been days since the last time he'd given in, but eating takes his mind off things. He can tell himself he's getting stronger for an escape.

He doesn't manage as much as he probably should, not enough food, not enough caring about surviving this. He just doesn't know, any more.

His eyes fall nearly closed again, until he can't see the walls at all, until he can't see anything beyond his knees and the floor at his feet. He knows how to be the last one alive, with nothing but himself and the darkness for company.

And the chuckling breath of a wraith, barely audible.

\---

Number Eight's definitely looking worse when John comes down the next morning. His eyes are red, and he's curled pathetically around himself in the corner, not even bothering to shift when he eventually notices John's presence. He's staring blindly at the one point of the room that John's been avoiding- the wraith.

The wraith- number seven, actually, but _the wraith_ is more useful, here, even if doubly horrifying- is sitting ramrod straight on his cot. The wraith. The ghost is sitting on his cot. The _specter_ is sitting on his cot.

The reality of it wouldn't be any less surreal or horrifying, he supposes, if the monster was a Jim instead. Mike maybe. _No._

They pass by his cell, John forcing himself not to do anything more than glance in- _he's more of a Todd, anyway_ \- at as they pass, heading down the row of empty glass boxes towards Eight. He's annoyed at how closely Cadman is following his footsteps, and some of it must be showing.

"I can't leave you alone down here," Cadman reminds him, though their earlier conversation rings amusingly hollow in his head like an echo.

 _"Is he armed? No. Can he kick my ass? Probably, but..." John's own words give him pause. He's about to go down to convince an alien to not kill them, to talk, to. Something. "Ah...what's the plan if he decides he's in the hostage-taking mood?"_

 _"I stun you once, him twice," Cadman shrugs, punching the code that will get them down to the holding level._

 _"Oh. Good. That's good."_

 _"Twice will kill him. So don't get cocky."_

\---

John opens the door to Eight's cell, slowly. No reaction, yet, not until he steps inside, and then it's just small. Eight tilts his head, glancing quickly at his face before focusing on his hands again. He brings his head up to watch them as John steps slowly into the cell.

John keeps his hands loose and relaxed- easier said than done- and glances quickly at Cadman's reflection in the glass to find that she's filled the space in the door, frowning. He's blocking her shot.

He takes a half step to the left, which hopefully also gives the impression that he's backing out of Eight's space, before crouching to the floor.

"Hey there," he starts. "I'm John, remember me?" He smirks as it falls flat. "Just wanted to see if you're okay. Looks like you've eaten. That's good."

Eight's relaxing just a bit, enough that his eyes do jump away towards the wraith again before flashing back to his hands the moment John shifts. The wary, tense expression he's wearing doesn't change, and he doesn't give completely. His shoulder's propped against the glass, carefully, and he doesn't ease back against the glass completely. It looks like his back might be bothering him, or maybe he's chosen the position because it provides good sight lines on his two main interests.

The wraith is freaking him out as much as John's hands are. As much as John is.

It's not enough to go on, yet. He hasn't proven or disproven probable cause. But whatever's going on, John is suddenly positive that Eight isn't what they're afraid he is.

\---

John Sheppard introduces himself as John this time, and again asks for Ronon's name, his voice sounding slightly disappointed when Ronon doesn't reply.

John asks him- again- if he's injured, if he's in any sort of discomfort. He's looking for a weakness, assessing Ronon's condition. The last time anyone had asked, he'd been sent up to fight in an arena, ordered to kill or be killed, and the battle had just begun when the first wraith darts brought chaos behind them. By the end of the day, he'd been the only human left standing on that whole world.

"I know you've got good reason to be wary of us, but we really _are_ trying to help. We just need to be sure that you won't hurt anyone. We've got a medical facility here, if you're injured. Might be able to do something about whatever's bothering your back, at-"

Ronon can't hear him through the blast in his own head, and he can smell the burning dust, feel the heat exploding all over his chest and face as in front of him. He has to take a breathe before Melena's face shows itself too clearly.

John notices the flinch, his fingers twitching in surprise, but they relax again. "All I need is a yes or no," he presses. At best, he'll keep asking him the question. At worst, he'll force it. "Do you want or need to see a doctor?"

Ronon shakes his head. From down the length of cells, the wraith starts humming again. He's been rocking back and forth in place for hours now, but his eyes are still closed.

John's voice sounds relieved when he speaks again. "Okay, good. That's good. Now look. I know this entire...ordeal has got you off balance, and you've got reasons not to trust us. I mean, locking you in a cell, far from home..." he trails off, and Ronon can just make out his head shifting, turning towards the wraith. "And you've had a wraith staring you down for the past thirty hours. It's enough to make _anyone_ nervous."

John's hands twitch again, and Ronon scans his face quickly while his attention is drawn by the wraith. His face is inscrutable, but his eyes- there's disgust, there. And fear. And disbelief, just for a moment.

"If you could just tell us who you are, explain what happened, we might be able to get to work on getting you out of here. Get you back home. So. We'll start easy. What you were doing back on, ah... Sateda? Why did the wraith release you?"

Ronon's fingers are clawing into his knees. There's no way for John to know that Sateda was- that the wraith _never_ -

Nothing about this is _easy_.

"Hey," John's hands move, quickly, balancing as he's about to move, shifting towards his right, and finally he's going to attack, get this over with, reveal his real intent. To his left, there's a quick shift in the doorway, the now-familiar sound of a stunner being readied as Ronon presses himself up into the corner, instinct getting his feet beneath him, he's ready to-

John's hands freeze, and so does the rest of him. He's merely leaning forward, up on his knees, looking up at him and eturning his assessing stare.

Ronon looks at his face again, finds him intent and staring, but not afraid, and he's trying to project calmness too strongly. A cough from the doorway seems to bring him back to his senses, and John blinks, eyes jumping up and around to the glass before landing on the woman's reflection as recognition dawns over his face.

John shifts back, carefully. Out of the line of fire, the flash of irritation too faint for her to notice in his reflection. Only Ronon sees it.

"Easy, Cadman," John says. "We're good. It's fine."

\---

John waits a few moments, using his own heart rate as a monitor, and uses the tine to try and discern just what the hell he'd been doing.

Being stunned wasn't the same as being killed, he knew that, but he also doesn't want to experience it firsthand. He's been working with guns of one sort of another for years, now.

 _He'd passed the written exam, no problem, but his rank as detective was still probationary, and probably always would be unless the Captain had a sudden change of heart. It was John's third case, and Tom Clayton, their main suspect, was back against the wall, still cuffed. He wouldn't talk, wouldn't confess to anything, and the evidence that cleared him wouldn't be showing up for another thirteen hours. They'd attracted attention from outside, and Detective Larkin stormed through the door, gun drawn. John dodged quickly out of the line of fire, barely glancing at Larkin._

 _Clayton was just a kid, didn't know enough to recognize the massive break in protocol. He could've sued the department into the ground, later, could've had both their badges. But Larkin knew it, and in return for John's silence- 'this doesn't have to leave the room'- John's rank as detective went from probationary to real with nothing more than three days and a conversation with the Captain. All because he wouldn't stand between a kid and a gun_.

Maybe he'd just remembered how the Captain's signature on that bottom line had made him feel ill. Maybe instinct was large enough to cover for guilt.

But he'd been blocking Cadman's shot deliberately.

He'd been doing his job. It wasn't anything more than that.

Nobody's shooting. Nobody's stunned, nobody's dead.

They're fine.

\---

Ronon waits, scans the two of them for any hint of a tell, but right now, they're just waiting. Cadman is taking her cues from John, and John seems to be joking, when he eventually speaks again.

"Well. That could've gone better."

Cadman hums in acknowledgement but doesn't lower the stunner. Ronon hadn't been expecting her to, not with John slowly rising to his feet. He's vulnerable like this, and if it wasn't for her, Ronon could-

John steps away, backs off as soon as he's standing, keeping his hands visible all the while. He's giving Ronon space.

"Sorry about that," there's regret in his voice, sympathy that sounds like it might be more than annoyance at nearly getting himself stunned. His eyes mostly hold Ronon's, but they keep darting away. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't take that personally. That was a miscommunication, more my fault than yours."

As he talks, Ronon forces his shoulders to droop into a nonthreatening, relaxed posture that's mostly a lie. The tracker in his back sings out painfully all over again as he does so, curling metal on his spine, flits of lightning shooting out into his limbs. He takes a breath, and another. Steadies himself as he consider's John's words.

"But here's the situation," John's saying, with a concerned glance at Ronon's shoulder, noticing the twitch that Ronon hasn't been able to suppress, yet. "You need to talk to us if you want our help." The slight pleading on his face is tempered by the steel in his eyes.

John's fingers are mostly splayed, curling slightly towards their palms, like John's forgotten them completely. His palms are just skin, there's no mouth, no claws. No fists. He's just waiting. After a moment, though, there's a crackling on Cadman's radio, someone's asking for Sheppard.

"We've got to go," Cadman says, and John sighs, his hands falling slowly, his voice disappointed when he speaks.

"All right, then. We'll try again tomorrow." He takes a step backwards before turning around, and if Ronon dodges left fast enough, he can place John in the line of fire again, shove him into Cadman before she can reset her aim, move out past them.

"Sateda was my home," he finds himself saying instead. "And the wraith never let me go."


	7. Chapter 7

John gives it a few minutes, sits quietly on the floor, just slightly closer than he'd sat yesterday. Eight's watching his hands again, but it seems to be taking more effort. John doesn't get his hopes up; Eight doesn't trust him, he's just too tired to keep his guard up. The shadows under his glassy eyes are even darker than before, and yesterday's food is sitting untouched, stale and dry on the tray.

He's getting worse. John probably doesn't need to mention it. But it means they're looking at a timeline, here.

"Yesterday, you said the wraith never let you go," he says instead. "What did you mean?" It's not the first question he wants to ask, but it's his best chance at getting the ball rolling. If Eight had considered it important enough to say once, maybe he'll keep talking.

The resignation in Eight's voice, when he eventually speaks, almost makes John wishes he wouldn't.

\---

"They came to Sateda many years ago, and we fought back," Ronon says, forcing himself not to make a fist when the guard shifts her stance. It's a good exercise, a good distraction from the explosions and the shouting and the burning smell of everything. Better than the sense memory of _knowing_ that Kell had betrayed them, that his brother's squad, dispatched to the north side of the capitol, had missed two check-ins.

 _He's running, now, drawing the wraiths' fire, no choice but to keep low, keep moving, another two corners and he'll be through the alley. Tyre and Ara will be waiting in position, they'll have cover fire ready and-_

 _Several spans in front of him, the rear of the western building is hit, and it's the hospital all over again, the shockwave and the blinding flash, the percussive hit of air against his chest, flinging him back as the wall starts to crumble._

 _It's a kill box, there's nothing to do but turn and fight but he's already been stunned, can't bring his hands up to brace his fall, the pavement breaking red against his face is the last thing he sees-_

John's looking at him, but there's no way to explain it. John hadn't been there, hadn't seen. And he's not interested in Ronon's suddenly knife-blade clear memories, any more than Ronon is in discussing them.

"I was captured." Ronon catches himself rubbing his hands on his thighs again; the skin of his palms is rough, calloused, but there are no teeth. He doesn't know why he keeps thinking otherwise. "I came to on the hive. They made me a runner. Been hunting me ever since."

John frowns, confused, like he doesn't understand and it's bothering him. "Why? For fun? Training?"

 _Because they can't feed on me_ , Ronon doesn't say, his head swimming. It's hot in here. Maybe it's just the fever coming back again. _Because I'm more entertaining to them alive than dead. Because they're wraith_.

John's intent is all too clear with his next words, spoken carefully as he moves past his unanswered questions. "So they hunt you, catch you, then release you. Then start it all over again. Does that about sum it up?"

Ronon's not giving anything away by nodding. John doesn't look like he believes him, anyway.

\---

They're doing good, here. Eight's talking, at least, though it's obvious it won't last for long. Usually by now, the an interviewee is pushing back for information, making demands. But Eight's sweating and the effort required to rub his hands on his legs again seems to be taking a lot out of him.

It's the third time in ten minutes that he's done so, and probably means one of three things. His leg could be hurting- he hasn't stood up or pushed himself further into the corner since John arrived. It could be nerves, though Eight's tics tend to manifest in ways that keep his hands clear. Or it could be that he's so filthy- a detail that's becoming harder to ignore with each passing minute- that it's just not possible to wipe his hands clean.

John remembers trying to wipe sweat and salt off onto fatigues that hadn't been able to absorb any more, sitting on the floor of a filthy shack in the foothills. Somewhere over the course of his two weeks spent as a guest at gunpoint, his dreams had changed, gone from rescue and freedom and Golden Gate Park to showers and soap and towels. They could've broken the toes on his other foot, too, and he would have kept his mouth shut.

John still wonders, sometimes, how much he would have told them if they just would've let him get _clean_. Maybe it's worth a shot with Eight.

"Hey, ah-" John breaks off, not wanting to call him _Eight_ and still having nothing better to go by. "You know, you should really tell me your name one of these days." John pauses, half-waiting for a reply that he's not honestly expecting, and uses the opportunity to glance at Cadman, who nods back at him. She's ready for him to get to the plan. "Still no, huh? That's fine, but look at me. You've got a decision to make. If you want, there are showers upstairs. We can take you up there to get cleaned up."

He watches Eight's eyes dart to the lavatory off the end of the room, past the wraith's cell. It's tiny, just a toilet and sink, too deliberately cramped to allow real movement. There is, however, a spigot built into the wall beneath the sink, and unless ordered otherwise, Sargent Stackhouse and his team are going to be attaching a hose, running it across the cells, and spraying Eight down, clothes and everything.

There might not be a need to spell it out, though; something resembling interest is flashing across Eight's eyes. He obviously realizes that this excursion means getting into the elevator, going to a different level. It'll be the most freedom he's had in weeks.

The moment passes, though, and Eight's shutting down again, his eyes dropping to John's hands as his own fists clutch at his shirt hem. It's filthy and threadbare in places, but they've already taken nearly everything else of his; his clothes are all that's left. John's pretty sure he'd be reluctant to be parted from his shirt, too, even one so hideous as this, under the circumstances.

"We can give you something to wear while your clothes get washed," John adds, honestly wondering how much of the material might disintegrate once it hits the water, but that's a problem for later. "Might suck for a while, but you'll be more comfortable in the end, right?"

Maddeningly, there's still no real response. "And hey, if anything else, it'll be a change of scenery for a while, right?" At that, Eight's eyes find his for just a moment, not believing a word of it. "Okay," John concedes. "Maybe not that much of a change."

John stands. He can't actually wait here all day long for Eight to decide if he wants a shower or not. Another few hours and it won't matter; he'll be hosed off, maybe they'll toss him a towel as an afterthought, and what little progress they've made will be gone.

Behind him, though, Eight's unfolding himself, rising to his feet slowly.

\---

Ronon just wants to go back to the hazy sleep he's been drifting in and out of, but can't let himself, not with everything that John's just offered.

There's a spark of something in his head as he stands; it feels something like hope and he clamps down on it, hard. Escape is unlikely, given how much the room sways when he stands. But even if all he gets out of this is a chance at reconnaissance, it'll be worth the effort.

The elevator is small enough that if he neutralized the guard first, John would be defenseless. Ronon turns as the doors slide shut, gauging her position. she's blocking the control panel with her body. Pressing a sequence of buttons; command or passcode, he can't tell, but it gives him pause. It's another piece of information he's going to need.

Inside the elevator, the guard blocks his view of the control panel with her body as she presses a sequence of buttons. There's no way to tell whether they're commands or pass codes. Ronon tells himself it's the only thing stopping him from neutralizing her before attacking John. The swaying against the railing as they lurch and begin to rise has nothing to do with it.

He's careful to stare at nothing in particular; the nothing he's chosen is just to the left of the readout displaying the floors they've passed. He keeps it just at the edge of his scope of vision, in case either of them look up at him. There are at least four sub-levels here, probably several more above, and Ronon's not at all surprised, when the doors slide open, that they're stepping into a field of uniforms.

Four guards immediately flank them- Markham and Stackhouse had been on the ship, the other two are even more unknown- and Cadman backs out first, her eyes never leaving his. The three stunners and two guns pointing at him are almost a compliment. The guards immediately flank him as John leads them down the corridor.

There are no windows, here, no way to tell where any of the heavy doors they pass lead, but eventually they're turning into a room that smells clean and dirty all at once. The female guard- _Cadman_ , he thinks he remembers- doesn't follow them inside.

Narrow metal cabinets line the walls, and there are two low benches bolted to the floor. At the end of one of them is a stack of coarse cloth- perhaps the clothes John had mentioned- and a small collection of bottles and tubes. There's a comb, and a small brush on a long handle that looks like it might be a toothbrush, but Ronon's not certain.

"Okay," John eventually decides, grabbing the bottles and brushes and heading around the side end of the cabinets. The guards shift. Ronon's meant to follow, and they mean to follow him.

"Toothbrush, toothpaste." He sets them by the sink before moving away again, gesturing for Ronon to move forward.

Ronon had found a toothbrush- the handle had been much shorter, more familiar feeling- in a long abandoned storeroom last year, but it had fallen apart some months ago. The sensation of cleaning his mouth is strange, pleasant even though the thick paste he's using tastes awful. He's unsurprised to find five sets of eyes on him in the polished metal mirrors, but it's still strange, doing this with an audience.

It's bad enough, he realizes, that he's gone so far as to put this into his mouth. The toothpaste seems safe enough so far, but there's nothing that could make him swallow it, so he spits it out into the sink, watching for a reaction from the guards. There is none, however. Either he'd gotten it right, or they're more well trained in schooling their features than he thought.

A moment later there's the sound of a shower running, echoing loudly. The reason is obvious, when Ronon rounds the corner; this part of the room is tiled- even the walls, gleaming mutely under the blueish lights. They make John look older than he's seemed, warier as he engages in silent communication with one of the guards. It's an interchange of glances and shrugs that Ronon hasn't yet learned to translate. After a few moments of this, though, they seem to have come to some sort of decision.

"Strip down and toss your clothes in the hamper," the taller of the two guards Ronon hasn't seen before today points to a canvas bin the the corner. His voice is gruff, jarring, almost as bad as the reality of the situation is becoming.

 _  
The wraith take everything from him, the first time they capture him. His world hadn't been enough. They stare impassively as they strip him down to nothing, take his shirt, his knives as they wrestle him to the table, sick cold hands, sharp in all the wrong places, grind into his wrists as they hold him down under their knives._

 _When they finish, they throw a heavy black coat at him. Not his armor, not his shirt. It's clothing made for a wraith, a coat made of material that drags sickly across his skin and they force him into it before hitting releasing him out into the world with no idea what's happening._

 _This isn't Sateda. He doesn't know where he is, can't even see the gate. It's not Sateda; he needs to get home, get some supplies, find out what's happening. He doesn't even know how long he's been gone._

 _The first blast streaks wide of him, impacting on nothing but grass. The second hits closer; it's a warning but he's already taken it. He's running._

 _He's got to get home. Find some proper clothes. He'll be able to breathe again._

\---

Eight starts withdrawing into his head when Stackhouse gives the order, his face slackening and seeming a million light years away, but when John steps forward, he snaps to attention, tense, ready maybe to fight, to try to run. John can hear his breathing from here. Eight's eyes are burning the bottles in John's hands, but there's no way to know if he's seeing them.

"Hey," he says, careful to move slowly again as he draws closer. He hadn't missed the Marine's tensing response; he needs to play this clean for both sides.

"This bottle's shampoo," he says dumbly, brandishing the bottle in his left. "For your hair. This one is for your skin. Come on." He starts heading back towards the shower, feels the humidity dampening his clothes while he's still across the room, and places the bottles on the floor, just outside the spray. Eight's followed, ignoring the Marines and their guns for the moment as he takes in the tiles and the lack of exits.

There's no way this will end well if Eight decides to make a move right now. But Markham, unfortunately, is at the end of his patience, handing his stunner to Stackhouse before stepping forward, his hands outstretched.

Eight, it turns out, can move very quickly when he wants to. A feinted dodge right, then left, testing the Marines and finding them blocking off his exit. He back-steps away, almost against the wall, now.

"Cool it, everyone, hey?"

Markham snorting in derision. John probably would too, were their positions reversed. They don't take orders from him, but they're not the only ones with a job to do. Eight's still panting, but John isn't any more armed than he's ever been, and Eight's got to be lucid enough to remember that.

"Come on," John says, keeping his voice calm, trying for reassurance. "The sooner you get started, the sooner you're done." Stackhouse thankfully enough, picks up on what John's trying to do, urges the other three Marines back towards the door. The entrance is still blocked, but Eight's got space again, and John steps again into the very edge of it.

"We've got towels and clothes for you and you don't have to fight us on this."

More waiting for a reaction. This time, when it comes, it's impossible to tell if Eight's about to relent or about to fall down. He wavers a bit as he turns away, and it's another moment before before his hands go to the leather-mounted fasteners on his shirt. They're moving slowly; for a moment it looks like modesty, but it's more likely that he's merely keeping the Marines in sight. He unbuckles his right cuff, his left, then the collar, and he's shrugging the ragged black shirt off of his shoulders.

John's not certain he sees it at first, under all the hair, but as Eight shifts to disentangle one of his dreadlocks from a catching closure, John's eyes lock on what looks like a tattoo in the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. It's a black, spidering design-

-that's done in three dimensions, with crusted streaks of brown to red to pink bleeding into the clammy expanse of his upper back, infected and wrong and whatever's under there raises the skin, pushes it out from his spine. For a moment John thinks he can see something just barely glinting through the crusted, pulling scabs, bone or metal or worse, but it's gone too quickly, because the heavy leather of the cuff, when thrown, is enough to weight the material when it's thrown, send it flying into Markham's face, but it's Eight's follow through, the heavy lunge, the startling speed, that sends everything to hell.

It's a pointless move, expected, already accounted for, and Eight goes down unsurprisingly quickly, and it's Stackhouse's stunner blast, not Monroe's bullets bringing him down, but Eight collapses to the floor all the same. His eyes are rolling back, closing, the muscles of his back are stuttering from the hit to the chest, and then it's just _quiet_..

There's a moment of silence while the Marines, too, survey the scene. John's having a hard time looking at anything other than the wound- or whatever that is- sticking sickly out of Eight's infected skin, so obviously, sickeningly _there_ that John's feeling sick for letting it go for so long. He doesn't have time to consider it for long, however. Cadman's head pokes around the corner only an instant behind the barrel of her gun. Her stunner's on her hip; she's not an idiot.

"Hose him off before he comes out of it," Stackhouse decides after a moment, waving the others into motion. "We'll get him cleaned up a bit, get him back in the cell." John's got it in him to protest, he knows he does, but he's not in charge. This is _his_ mess they're cleaning up, and it's only becoming more apparent as the Marines close in, surrounding Eight, getting ready to move him.

John steps out of the locker room, rejoins Cadman, wondering what it is, exactly, that's setting up shop in his head, worrying at the edge of his thoughts. If it's the stupidly obvious risk he'd created, here, or his small likelihood of getting another chance. Or maybe, too, it's the certainty that this had been some test that he'd failed- Eight's maybe, or Woolsey and McKay's.

As he leaves, he can hear the rasping of fabric and leather, the dragging of skin against tile and the breathing of the Marines, their annoyed wet grumbling as they attend to the task. Cadman joins him at the elevator, watching him with eyes that she's obviously trained not to widen, but her curiosity's impossible to hide.

"What're you going to do?"

The same thing he's always done is the only thing he can think of. "Gonna salvage what I can."

\---

By the time he's explained and justified the failed plan to Woolsey and Weir, nearly an hour's gone by. He's been relegated to a chair in the corridor while inside, their deliberation continues. Every so often, words bleed through the walls.

"It's not Sheppard's station," Woolsey's saying, but his voice sounds more resigned than angry. It's as good as he can hope for. "He exposed the entire operation to what could've been a serious threat," though, is more troubling. It sounds like a firing offense, like any minute, the door's going to open, he's going to be brought back inside and given his papers, another reprimand, and then escorted off the premises.

He'll go back to his apartment, back to his busted air conditioner, empty fridge and empty life and will just have to put all of this behind him. It's all getting surreal again, and the strange angle of the sunlight hitting the linoleum floor isn't doing anything to dissuade the feeling.

 _I met an alien, once_ , he can see himself thinking aloud, wary of the nondisclosure agreements he's signed and the strong likelihood that they're not just a feel-good bureaucratic tool. _Tried to get through to him. It didn't take. Put the world at risk, and they wound up having to..._

It's really just as well he'll have nobody to tell, because he suspects he knows how that sentence would have to end.


	8. Chapter 8

Even with Weir's surprising support, it's an hour before John manages to convince Woolsey that the chaos in the bathroom did not actually represent a massive threat to global security. Even so, he waits in the infirmary's waiting room for half an hour before the door opens. John gets a quick glimpse of two guards moving about inside as Keller steps out, her face lined with tension.

"He came to when we were getting him on the table," she holds the door open, beckons him inside. John's pretty sure she's skimming over something unpleasant when she continues. "We put him under in order to treat him, so don't worry when he doesn't move."

"But he's okay?" They're walking past the guards to an isolated recovery room at the far end of the infirmary. Inside, another guard is chatting to the two medics as they take gauze and sterile bandages out of the supply cabinet.

Eight's lying face down on the gurney, ankles, legs, arms and wrists secured with heavy leather belts, probably to help ensure that the IV he's hooked into has half a chance of staying seated. They've dressed him in scrub pants that aren't quite long enough, and though it's been cleaned off, the wound on his spine is still there.

It's been cleaned up quite a bit. The bump on his spine has been cut away, revealing a slick dark green _something_ that's horrifying to look at. Only slightly less so is the rectangular patch just to the left; it's about one inch by two, and the skin's been carefully removed, down to the dermis. What's left is bleeding slightly, wet, maybe, with what John hopes is antibiotic gel. It's a little like looking at a puzzle with a few pieces missing. The only thing that stops it from looking like a truly gruesome crime scene is the steady rise and fall of Eight's back as he breathes.

Many of the incision scars- regardless of age- seem to radiate out from that point; some of them are visible even in the exposed dermis. Most of the incisions streak jaggedly out over the surface of Eight's skin, to the left and up towards his shoulder.

Keller brushes one of the dreadlocks off of Eight's back, even though it's not in the way. "We were able to remove the more superficial parts, but he's fighting a minor infection. With antibiotics, it's nothing to worry about. I'm still waiting on several test results to come back to be sure, but mostly, he's dehydrated and undernourished." Her eyes dart again to the implant with distaste. "But the implant, it's definitely wraith in design, and it's fused to his vertebra. McKay's already confirmed that it's transmitting a signal, but it's going to be a few hours before he and Zelenka are ready to make a report. By the time I've had a chance to go over his scans, they'll probably have something."

John keeps his eyes on the scars, mostly to avoid looking at the transmitter. They're short, choppy and jagged, and very few of them land close enough to the device to have done any good. John withdraws his fingers- he'd been so close to tracing the scars out over Eight's back, hadn't even realized it- before he straightens again.

There's little doubt, but it's easy enough to make the case. Wrapping his right arm around over his own left shoulder experimentally, he twists so Keller can see. His fingers just brush against the point where a knife, held in that hand, could've broken the skin. Now that he's sure, he can say it.

"He tried cutting it out himself." He wants to laugh, wants to march up to Woolsey's office with the news- _Eight isn't allied with the wraith! He didn't want the device, tried taking it out!_ He wants this to mean a lot more than what it might actually be.

Instead, he asks, "Do you think you'll be able to remove it?"

"If this were an emergency, I'd be more willing, but I'd rather bring in another set of eyes than risk it needlessly." Nodding to the medics, who move in to start bandaging Eight's back, she leads John to the door and says no more until they're on the other side; when she does continue, she speaks carefully. "It'll take some time. There's going to be a certain amount of bureaucratic finagling, since the best surgeon for the job is on Atlantis." Taking a breath, she gets to what she's been building towards. "And I'm going to need to convince the IOA that it's worth doing."

"Isn't the fact that the wraith might get a lock on his transmission reason enough?"

"Ideally, yes. But practically... the time, complications and expense-" she bites her lip, doesn't need to continue, because John's already thinking it. They don't need Eight alive to stop the threat from coming.

\---

John meanders down to the chair room, grabs the tablet from the seat before sitting down. Zelenka's added some more commands he thinks John should know; for the most part they're requests for diagnostics, trajectory analyses, and something that looks like a predictive modeling unit. The images, when the come floating above him are shakier than they've been. Anyone else watching would know that his concentration's not where it should be.

He's at it for maybe thirty minutes when he gives up all pretense, and is just sitting up and checking his watch- it's _finally_ about time to go home- when there's an announcement on the PA system.

 _John Sheppard, report to the infirmary. Sheppard to the infirmary_.

The chair powers down the moment he stands, and John can see from halfway down the hall that it's going to take a few moments for the elevator to arrive, so he takes the stairs down two by two, trying to prepare himself for the chaos he knows he's going to find.

It's therefore surprising when he finds one of the medics from earlier- John should probably know his name by now but doesn't ask- standing outside the infirmary.

"Good," he says, opening the door. "We weren't sure if you'd left for the day."

Dr. Keller is standing outside the door to Eight's room, and smiles tiredly when she sees him. She's changed her clothing, looks like she's about ready to hit the gym on her way home.

"He's about to come out of it," she says. "I thought it might help if you were here when he does. If you don't mind hanging out for a bit?" She's got dimples when she grins, and might be flashing them deliberately. John's too tired to come up with a reason to fight them.

\---

Ronon notices the cold first, then the light bleeding through his eyelids, but it's the tight binding on his wrists that kicks him into wakefulness. There's not much to see here- it's too bright and he's lying on his stomach; his shoulders and legs are bound as well. The air moving over the bare skin of his back tells him all he needs to know about his lack of clothing.

"Hey," there's a voice, John's, and a dark blur as he shifts into Ronon's field of vision. "Hey, it's all right. You're in the infirmary. Hospital." Ronon's eyes close reflexively, but John doesn't stop talking. "The doctors wanted to make sure you were okay after you went down earlier. Do you remember what happened?"

It's hard to concentrate, there's something floating in his head, smudging the edges of his thoughts, but he remembers tile and guns, the thought of escape, the stinging shock that ended it. Slowly, he tests his bonds again. They're still there. Something's stuck to his arm, down into the bones, another implant, maybe, to match the one in his back.

He'd pushed back too far, and they'd shown their hand, and if he could just get some leverage, he could fight this off of him- he's been tied down, but the bed they've tied him to doesn't feel sturdy, he could bring it down if he shifts his weight quickly enough, maybe something will shake loose.

"Hey," John's voice again, and there's something warm on Ronon's shoulder. The voice is closer, now. "Relax, okay? We can get you out of here if you just stay calm." The _look at me_ is unspoken, but Ronon imagines he hears it anyway, and opens his eyes again.

John's face is less than an arm span away, if Ronon could reach, and it's hard to focus on it, hard to read the expression he's wearing. Ronon glances down towards his shoulder, can just see that it's John's hand resting there. The moment his eyes hang on to it, John withdraws quickly, his hands moving out of sight. He's moving to the side as a second person- Ronon hadn't even realized there was one- comes into view.

"Hi, I'm Jennifer," the woman's voice is friendly and quiet but Ronon recognizes her enough- she'd been the one to inject him with whatever it is that's clouding his head. He's been unconscious, tied down, and he doesn't know for how long. Doesn't know what they did to him.

Her expression turns to worry. "Easy," she says. "Shh. I'm a doctor. We wanted to make sure you were okay, and to get a look. At." She stumbles, glances towards Ronon's shoulder. "You're running a slight fever. That's your body fighting off an infection. We're doing what we can to help. That stinging in your hand," Ronon flinches at the brush of something next to the implant, startling her. "We're giving you medicine to make you feel better. Cleaned and dressed your wounds, and I took a look at that device in your back."

Ronon's already to immobilized to freeze, but the impulse is there nonetheless. "It's wired into your spine and will require surgery to remove it. Would you like that?"

 _Would you like that?_

\---

Eight's turning his head, burying his face against his own shoulder and Keller's looking at John like he's supposed to have any idea what the hell is going on and gesturing at the nearest restraint.

"Hey," he tries to buy some time. As far as he can tell, Eight's listening, and Keller's nodding. "You don't have to answer that right now. I'm going to undo the restraints, let you sit up, but you have to promise not to attack, or we'll have to leave them on, okay?"

Eight's back rises and falls again, one deep breath that stutters on its way out. Eventually, his head moves in what John decides is assent. With a wary glance at the guards, who've had their stunners at the ready ever since this weird half-conversation started, he moves closer. "I'm going to do your left hand first."

Eight's gone rigid, still as John finagles the strap open. "I'm moving up to the shoulder now, okay? Once it's gone, I want you to look down at your right hand so you can see why you need to be careful with it when the strap comes off."

This is where it'll get tricky. For Keller's benefit as much as Eight's, he explains the next step. "Jennifer is going to help you move it so you don't get hurt." This time, Eight nods, his head already shifting against the gurney. Once the restraint's been undone and threaded out from underneath his hair, his back twitches.

"You're doing good," Keller says, stepping closer. John moves back out of their way, careful to keep Eight's face in sight and the needle _out_ of sight. It's disturbing enough to look at taped in place; John doesn't want to see what it looks like getting ripped out. Eight slowly pushes himself up with his left arm to look back over his shoulder, watching as Keller unbuckles the strap, her hands moving more slowly than they need to, she's got one hand steadying Eight's- he's _letting_ her- and the other steadying his arm, holding the drip line in place as she steers it towards Eight's shoulder.

"It's a saline drip," Keller explains. "I know you can feel the needle under your skin. Does it hurt?"

Eight shakes his head minutely, his eyes never wavering from the needle. They've probably given him painkillers. Then again, he hadn't complained about the festering wounds on his back, either.

"You're on the drip because you were dehydrated," she explains after a moment spent skimming over further details that she's thankfully deciding not to offer. Her next question, unsurprisingly, gets more of a reaction from Eight. "Do you want me to take it out?"

Eight nods, risks a glance at her and then at John before focusing again on his hand, flexing his fingers experimentally.

"This will be easier if you're sitting up," she decides, moving back. "Don't move yet, we'll help you when it's time, okay?" Not waiting for an answer, she steps back to give John room to move. The kicks he's been expecting don't come when he undoes the straps around Eight's ankles. He steadies the gurney as Keller maneuvers the stand around to the other side. "Okay. Can you try and stand up?"

Careful of his right hand, Eight slides off the gurney, wavering slightly as he stands. He catches himself, though, his posture going ramrod straight as Keller brings the gurney down a few inches.

"Okay. Sit down. Let me take that out." She's looking at Eight's hand when she says it, and Eight's looking at her. John's the only one who sees the relief in his eyes. For a moment, it looks like he might actually smile.

\---

Once the needle's removed and the insertion point's cleaned, Ronon supposes he should feel grateful, or thankful or something. As it turns out, though, the needle was a distraction. He's sitting on the gurney wearing nothing but thin pants, he's cold and outnumbered and doesn't know what's coming next. It's a little surprising when Jennifer is the first one to leave. The guards at the door step aside to let her pass, but they're both still covering his position. It's clear that they're expecting him to take the opening.

He's just too tired. Running's not a viable option right now, and even if it were, he doesn't know where to run to. He doesn't know what to do with himself. He closes his eyes on all of it, just for a moment.

"Your clothes," John says. "It's taking a while. In the meantime, here." Ronon opens his eyes. The robe is bright orange, but softer than it looks when he takes it but Ronon doesn't understand why John's giving it to him. He puts it on, anyway. The skin of his back feels tight when he pushes his arm out through the sleeve, but the pain's far away, like everything else is, here.

"Sorry," John says. The robe's an apology, then, for what's coming next. "You ready to go back?"

\---

Eight's quiet on the way back to the cell- not that he's a talkative one, but he seems _docile_ , now, enough that John catches himself hoping that it's just the sedatives that are still sitting in his system. Eight's face, caught in glimpses, reveals nothing. John can't actually tell if he's disappointed to be going back to his cell, or too high to care, or plotting his next escape attempt.

Worse, if Eight's going into lockdown mentally as well as physically, then everything back in the infirmary is really nothing more than a wasted play. He can stab at the buttons on the elevator as hard as he wants, but nothing's changed.

Eight steps off the elevator first, the Marines following closely behind. Between the bright orange and the stunners they make a bizarre hunting party, but nobody here would probably get or want the reference, so he keeps his mouth shut. Eight's cell door is opened and he walks in without fanfare.

John nods at the Marines- shift change is in half an hour and they've got paperwork to do- and hangs back when they leave, but he can't think of anything to say. He needs to get going on his long drive back to his empty apartment. He needs beer, food, TV, and bed, and enough luck to keep Mad Marlene from coming down looking for her dead cat. It's this thought that sends up the white flag; his brain's just not up to this right now.

But he's just aware enough of the situation to want to leave Eight with more than a dark room and a bathrobe. The orange makes him look huge, bigger than he really is, and easier to find should he manage to escape, but the effect is offset by blue hospital scrubs and bare feet. Eight's shoulders are hunched, his hands jammed into his pockets, and his face is tilted towards the floor; these are what destroy the illusion entirely.

John's thinking about socks- he could stop on his way in, tomorrow- when Eight speaks.

"Was she telling the truth?"

"About?" The moment it's out of his mouth, he knows where it's going and realizes that _this_ is what they should have been talking about for the past twenty minutes. The selfish part of him wants nothing to do with it, wants to leave. From anyone else, this interaction here would be nothing. For the two of them, though, it could be anything. He rallies.

"The tracker." Eight clears his throat like the words are costing him something. "Taking it out."

"Yeah. She hopes so, anyway. It might take a while. We're going to need to bring in a specialist." Eight shifts, going so far as to glance up at the word, and John catches his eye, tries to hold it. "Thing is, it's not a done deal. Might not be her call, when it comes down to it. I have to convince people that it's worth the effort."

He can feel Eight's disappointment even through the glass and the mask that's telling John nothing, and his eyes shoot over to the wraith lounging on the cot in the other cell. The monster's actually easier to   
look at right now.

Eight hasn't moved, when John looks back. For all John knows, he'll stand there all night, waiting.

John sighs. "So look. I guess the point is this. If I'm going to do that, you're going to have to help me out, okay?"

Eight's eyes wander towards John's hands again, so John shoves them in his pockets, not wanting to give him the dodge. It seems to work.

"What do you want?"

"A name would be a good start."

Eight brings his elbows to his sides, either from nerves or the cold, but he's standing a bit taller. "Ronon," he says. "My name's Ronon Dex."


	9. Chapter 9

_John's flying low towards the crash site, can already see the smoke billowing up from the other side of the hill and his gut knows what he's going to find, but he tries raising Dex on the radio anyway, then Mitch. There's no response from either; John pushes faster. Collins searches the ground below for any indication of where the RPG came from, but it's impossible to tell. There are dozens of civilians on the ground, one of them seems to be putting pressure on an airman's wound, the others are either scavenging or just staring. But if they were going to be shot down, it probably would've happened by now._

 _In back, the recovery team is all set to go, they've already got boots on the ground, but there's chatter on the radios. They're not the only ones aware of the downed chopper; pretty soon they'll have more than samaritans and looters to contend with. Kohn is already set to take over on the controls with a nod, so John jumps out to assist._

 _It's not the first time he's seen a dead body, or even several. It is, however, the first time he feels the wet flesh oozing down along his wrists as he helps collect as many pieces as he can. He doesn't even know who these intestines belonged to. There are still too many bleeding into the ground when Kohn orders them back to the chopper. They've got to go._

 _John's sick three times before they land again._

 _His CO commends them all on a job well done and sends them to clean up._

 _And it starts all over again_.

\---

The name's just a coincidence, and John knows he wouldn't be giving it a second thought if the guy was named Michael or Jim or Miller or Stevens, but _Dex_... That's all this is, the name ringing bells. It has nothing to do with the sick futile feeling lodged in his chest, because John knows better than to read any omens into nightmares.

It's nearly five AM anyhow. He might as well get up.

\---

It's impossible to sleep once the tranquilizers in his system have worn off, and the wraith's begun muttering to itself again, anyway. Ronon remains still, his eyes closed, and tells himself that he's conserving energy. He still feels like he's been scraped raw, and the ache in his back threatens to remind him too much of the first time the wraith released him.

For now, though, he listens to the sounds of the building. It's still early; they haven't turned the lights on. No hint of noise echoes down the elevator shaft or bleeds faintly through the ceiling above. Soon more people- soldiers, guards, doctors, John- will start to arrive and the facility will come to life. They'll bring him food on a tray, sliding it carefully through the door at gunpoint, and he'll force himself to eat it this time. He'll take the medicine that Jennifer's prescribed him, and stick out his tongue when he's given the order. He needs to build his strength. Night will fall again, many of the soldiers will go home. The facility will grow quiet again, and after a few hours, the security team will come through.

He's going to need to play sick all day if he's going to be believed tonight. He'll need to let them think he's exhausted, possibly feverish. Too weak to fight them when they open the door and call down the medics.

It'll only be an act, he promises himself, pulling the robe over his shoulder to ward off the chill. He can do this.

\---

Ronon only knows he's slept at all when he wakes; the elevator is running, though never arrives on this level. The soldiers are starting to arrive, coming in from their barracks, probably, or early morning training maneuvers. Or perhaps it's the doctors heading up to their strangely sterile operating rooms that look nothing like places of healing. Maybe John's up there, somewhere.

The thought makes him impatient enough that he opens his eyes. The lights are still out.

Between now and tonight, he'll be given three meals that he won't feel like eating, and be let out to the lavatory down past the wraith cell three times, and will remind himself that he's killed dozens, possibly hundreds of them. He won't flinch when he walks past. He'll never give the wraith- even one going mad from hunger, locked in a cage- that satisfaction. The only break from the monotony will be the unexpected twinges in his back when he moves wrong, and John's visit.

He'll give tense assurances. _I'm trying to figure a way for you to get out of here_ , or _we're working on getting that thing out of your back_ His eyes will be intent, pleading, despite how hollow his promises are.

He'll ask more questions. Something like, _why did you attack our men_ , again, which Ronon still hasn't been able to explain, or _do you have family? Is there someone we can try contacting?_. He'd asked yesterday, dropped the matter when Ronon had bared his teeth at their mention, but he'll bring it up again. He always does. But he'll _talk_ , too, because every question is surrounded by a story, or an explanation, or an apology that he must know makes him look weak, though he chooses his words carefully. He'll watch Ronon's face whenever he stops to think, and like the phrasing of his questions, his eyes will give more away than they need to. He'll _consider_ , like he wants to get the words right, and it will take too much to look at him, then.

And it won't matter, because John's obviously following orders, but a foolish thought slips past now, anyway- he's trying to get them right for your sake. In a few hours, Ronon won't be able to afford the thought, but if he wants to pretend, for a while, that he can, there's no one else down here. And if he imagines asking questions of John, or talking to him, watching his eyes as they answer, at least it will pass the time.

\---

The morning drive is rough, given John's lack of sleep, but he manages to tune out the radio's weather reports and bad jokes. He mutters to himself, going over his recommendations a few more times as he parks the car and goes through security, earning wary glances from Marines too well-trained to mention it.

It doesn't mean he feels at all prepared for the meeting that's scheduled in fifteen minutes. And he still has no idea what he's going to say in thirty seconds, when he gets off the elevator.

Ronon's sitting on the edge of his cot, staring through the glass at the wraith, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. At some point over the night, he'd gotten his clothing back, though the robe and scrubs are balled up at the foot of the bed.

"Hey Ronon. How're you feeling today? Your back doing better?"

"It's fine." There's a hint of impatience in his tone, and he goes back to glaring at the wraith.

John finds himself at a bit of a loss. With anyone else, he could ask, _"what've you been up to,"_ or _"how was your night,"_ but the answers to the former are all easily found in the security logs. As far as the latter goes, it's a pointless question. "Good," he eventually decides, and with that, he's all out of small talk. There's nothing left but to get to it. "Just wanted to let you know. I'm going in to make my report to the powers that be."

Ronon looks at him, but doesn't ask it aloud. _What're you going to tell them?_

"That we should stop treating you like the enemy," is the easier part to get out; it's the only part he's confident about. The rest is enough of a crap shoot that he hadn't slept for more than three hours last night. "And that I'm hopeful we can turn this around into an alliance. Getting that thing out of your back, I figure, might be a good place to start."

Ronon's not quick to words, John's learned this much. Even so, it takes him an awfully long time to nod.

\---

John's not the last one to arrive, but spends the first five minutes of the meeting being introduced to General Landry and the representatives of the IOA. Woolsey, it turns out, might be the easiest of them to deal with. Ambassador Shen hasn't even said anything beyond introductions, and it's plain enough that she's going to be the biggest roadblock, especially if the two suits flanking her are anywhere near as cowed by her as they appear. Weir, Lorne, McKay, Caldwell and Mitchell are already sitting down, and once Keller arrives, they get started.

"As you've all heard," Weir smiles professionally around the table once the agenda's been read, "John Sheppard has managed to make some inroads with our guest, Mr. Ronon Dex, and Doctors McKay, Zelenka and Keller have come through with some useful information. As Zelenka has to be on a conference call with Cheyenne Mountain in ten minutes, I suggest we begin with the science team's report."

John tries to focus on what McKay and Zelenka are saying- it's important, it's relevant, he knows, but all he really gets out of it is that the wraith device in Ronon's back is indeed a tracking device. John's too busy thinking about the reality of it, sitting right now underneath Ronon's skin, buried under bandages and several levels of concrete.

"...most importantly for our purposes, though," McKay interrupts Zelenka for the third time in as many minutes, "is that while Atlantis's long range scanners would pick it up anywhere in Pegasus, as would the wraiths', the signal doesn't even _begin_ to reach the strength required to cross galaxies. The wraith could pick up on it only if they were already in the Milky Way." His grin is cut off abruptly with one measuring glance from Ambassador Shen.

"So. Since we expect them to reach our galaxy in just over a month, we can also expect them to be drawn straight towards this facility."

"It won't come to that," Caldwell jumps in when it's clear that nobody else will. "Our preparations are such that they're not going to have the ten seconds to spare searching for one man."

"Your assurances, notwithstanding, Colonel Caldwell," Shen bites back, earning a thin, insincere grin in return. "I'm sure you understand that we must consider all possible scenarios if we are to construct an appropriate response."

Zelenka is gathering his things and heading out quickly, obviously relieved to be making his escape. More than one set of eyes trail him jealously from the room. Weir, however, doesn't let on.

"Okay. Moving on from the tracking device to it's current location, John?"

"Thanks," John says, straightening in his chair. For a moment, he has absolutely no idea where to begin.

 _It's just a deposition. You've been through hundreds_.

"I'm sure you've all seen the mission reports, so I'll make this quick. Ronon Dex, also known as Patient Eight, was found under suspicious circumstances during Major Lorne's team's mission on Sateda. Lorne's team observed as the wraith released Dex from the hive ship just before fighting broke out. After neutralizing the wraith, the team returned to the gate, where Dex attacked them. He was stunned and brought back to Atlantis for questioning." A quick glance across the table finds Lorne nodding, and it's more of a relief than John's been expecting, having him on side.

"Not long after that, the wraith came to Atlantis, and Dex was moved, at which point several wraith ships in the area broke formation and started heading towards Earth. My interviews with Dex have shown that he was not willingly assisting the wraith in any way, and our examinations of both him and the device bear that out. While it's possible that the tracker drew the wraith to Atlantis, it was the wraith who crashed here on Earth that sent the signal that's drawing them _here_. I only mention this because with all of the suspicions surrounding Dex, this is the one most easily laid to rest."

"As you said," Shen points out. "We have read the mission reports and heard the scientist's findings. What remains to be seen is whether or not number Eight is currently a threat to us. From what I've heard, he's been responsive or combative at every turn. Have you been able to get _any_ valuable intel from him at all?"

John sighs. "It's taking a while to gain his trust. We've made progress, but he's still wary of us, myself included. I'm going to need some more time with him before he starts spilling everything, but my read on him is this: he's freaked out, been transferred from holding cell to holding cell for weeks, and has guns pointed at him at every point and turn."

John can feel himself flagging, here, but Lorne, thankfully, jumps in. "He was a mess when we first encountered him, and I think we can all agree that his circumstances haven't exactly been conducive to building trust."

"As was plainly illustrated by his attack on your men last week," Shen replies coolly. "But that aside, all we have is his word, the worth of which is still debatable."

Woolsey clears his throat, nods minutely at John before sharing a glance with Weir. "Thank you, John. As you've said, a little more time seems justified on your end, and as to ours, we've obviously got much to discuss."

John can't think of a thing they would possibly need to talk about, but he knows when he's being dismissed. He sits down, and after an awkward moment, Weir nods at Keller, who seems anxious to begin.

"Before you discuss," she begins awkwardly, "I've got my preliminary findings on Ronon's case. He's been suffering from a minor infection due not, as I'd originally thought, to the presence of the tracking device, but to what appears to be his own attempts to remove it. I had to remove some tissue in order to clean the implantation site, and I've prescribed him on a course of antibiotics, which appear to be taking care of the rest. But, moving on to more important things." This last is said with just enough inflection to let everyone at the table know she disagrees heartily with her own statement, but not enough to get a rise out of the IOA representatives.

"As protocol dictates, I ran the usual blood panels and scans, and was able to isolate several genetic markers, which I then ran against our copy of the Ancient database. At the time, I was looking to confirm that he was actually a Satedan native, and was able to do so. However, over the course of my research, I discovered files pertaining to genetics research carried out by the Ancients. It seems they were looking at creating a gene therapy that would increase their resistance to feeding."

McKay frowns. "You mean an immunity?"

"More like a deterrent, I suppose, but," Keller scowls for a brief moment. "Are you familiar with shark repellant?"

John's the only one in the room who nods. Apparently he's the only one who's ever been surfing, though it shouldn't surprise him. It's impossible to imagine Shen, for example, loosening up enough to even try it. McKay and Woolsey are even more laughable an idea.

"There's a fish called the moses sole. When a shark comes near, it releases a fluid that the sharks find distasteful, causing them to back off. This is kind of the same thing. A wraith might start to feed, but would be deterred rather quickly. The ancients were working towards creating a gene therapy and tested it out on any number of worlds, including Sateda."

"If it's everywhere, why haven't we encountered it before now?"

"Because it wasn't a perfect solution. The wraith might not be able to feed, but they could still kill the individual. The project was abandoned."

"So you believe that Ronon has this immunity?"

"It seems to be the case." Keller nods.

"Which would explain why the wraith didn't feed on him, and goes a fair distance to explain why they'd make him a runner," John concludes, glancing over at the IOA end of the table to find them conferring with each other. When they break their huddle, General Landry is the first to speak.

"Well. I think that regarding Mr. Dex, we've got enough here to work with. Sheppard, we'll let you know as soon as the IOA's had time to review the case. I think that about sums it up for now," he grins, and around the table, everyone starts gathering their things. "Doctor Keller? Would you mind sticking around a bit and talking Ambassador Shen and I through the finer points of the research?"

McKay's rolling his eyes the moment his back's turned from the table, but he grins at John as they make their escape. "Never let it be said that the IOA isn't quick to sink their teeth into the most irrelevant and over-their-heads part of a conversation."

John nods in surprised agreement. All this talk, and nothing's changed, not really.

"Anyway," McKay's heading in the same direction John is, apparently, jostling his laptop and papers as he walks. "I require coffee if I'm going to get through the rest of the day without killing anyone. You in?"

It's not that he needs ten minutes to get his head around the fact that he's going to have to go down and tell Ronon that nothing's been accomplished, that he doesn't know anything yet, and it's definitely not that he's feeling like he's let the guy down. He just didn't sleep well last night.

"Yeah," he says. "Sounds good."

\---

Somewhere in the facility above him, John is pleading his case to his superiors, but it's not the only thing making his skin crawl. For once, the wraith is quiet, though it's chosen to stand against the glass of its cell, staring across at him. Even with his back turned, Ronon imagines he can feel the gaze burning into him. It's strongest along his spine, where the skin is thinnest, and whenever his shoulders tense, he can feel the pull of bandages and dried blood.

In a few hours, Jennifer will come down, flanked by her usual retinue of assistants and guards, and redress the wound, dose out his medicine. Maybe this time he'll ask to see. He should've done so by now, anyhow.

But it's not Jennifer that he's waiting for, it's John.

 _Not John_ , he reminds himself. _News_.

His clothes had been returned to him and they're too soft on his skin; the leather feels as flimsy as the hospital garb he'd changed out of, and he keeps noticing the smell. Clean, but unidentifiable. Chemical, like Keller's salves or the toothpaste that's become part of his daily routine.

 _Routine_.

He doesn't know how long he's been down here, but it's long enough to have established habits, and none of them involve motion. Conserving energy is well and good, but will benefit him little if he's too sluggish when his opportunity arrives.

Stretching gingerly at first, he waits for the telltale motion of the elevator, the pounding of soldiers' footsteps, but none come, and he grows bolder, standing to stretch his legs before lowering himself to the floor. It's been years since he's been so deliberate in this. The first few push-ups are distressingly taxing, but his body remembers better than he'd hoped. He works through his exercises one by one, his mind slipping back, hearing Kell's voice counting repetitions, telling him to move. Guiding him through as Ronon loses himself to the patterns he still remembers, even after all this time.

It's not until he eases onto his back, still hearing Kell's barked orders, that he's reminded sharply of why he'd abandoned the practice. The pain is excruciating, shooting fiercely down along his spine and around to his abdomen, his hips, and he has to roll over onto his side just to make it _stop_.

Across the room, the wraith laughs quietly. It nearly covers the sound of the elevator doors opening.

"What's up with him?" John asks, puzzled, as the guard- Cadman again- stalks over for a closer look.

Drawing himself into a sitting position and shifting away from the door, Ronon shrugs. This feels foolish, but John's attention is on Cadman, who's coming back to open the door.

John's expression's changed by the time he's sitting on the floor.

"So I talked to my people," he says. "They're being bureaucrats. Taking their sweet time with coming up with a decision, _but_ ," he brightens, and Ronon hates how much he's catching himself wanting to smile at the man, "I wasn't the only one pleading your case. Keller is on board, and our scientists have proven that your tracker, there, isn't the threat they were thinking it was. It looks good."

Ronon blinks, hating the surge of hope that John's words bring. "For what, exactly?"

"Getting you out of here. And that _thing_ out of you. And maybe starting over with this entire close encounters of the third kind thing."

Ronon frowns, but figures he gets the gist of it. "What do you need me to do?"

"Honestly?" John's grinning like he hasn't realized he's doing it. "You're pretty much doing it. Keeping up with Keller's treatments. Not attacking anybody else is pretty much the main thing, since my people can get a little bit touchy about that sort of thing. And this." He waves his hand a bit. "The talking. It's good." He reigns himself in, though, the smile fading, his face becoming serious once more. "But mostly, you're going to have to be patient for just a little longer, okay?"

"Okay."

"So."

It takes a moment to realize that John wants him to say something, but Ronon's missed a cue again, somewhere. Doesn't know what he's supposed to say, and the reticence is back on John's face again.

"Yeah. Talking. So. I guess..." John runs a hand through his hair; it only makes it stick out more. "How long were the wraith hunting you?"

 _Forever_ , Ronon could say. John must know that one world's day is another world's week, but Ronon doesn't know how to explain what it is to be running _constantly_ , to catch sleep in what shelter's available, to punch blindly at the ring's controls, never knowing where they'll take him, or when it will be when he gets there.

 _He doesn't know this world or it's people, though they've obviously been recently culled. The encampment's small; there'd been less than ten families, here, barely established. The fields they've cleared haven't even been sown yet. The wraith hadn't even bothered to burn their huts to the ground, so easily taken were the inhabitants._

 _He searches the settlement, going from hut to hut and taking what he can. Enough dried meat and fruit to fill his bag, and a thick heavy shirt that doesn't reach his wrists. Three sturdy knives, one of them small enough for a child's hands, but balanced well for throwing. He's rummaging through a box of objects- a few pieces of jewelry that looks surprisingly well made, he ignores, but the heavy needle good- for leather- won't weigh him down or take up space. Underneath a small bundle of letters written in a language he can't read, though, is another, thicker bundle, flaking away at the creases already, and the familiarity catches suddenly in his throat._

 _He'd been assigned a rotation in Helka, one of Sateda's main trading partners, for what had felt like forever. Despite repeated washings upon his return, the moldering smell of the paper mills had permeated his uniform jacket. Rakai had noticed it too, making faces and clapping him on the back as they made their way down to morning formation. "It's amazing, don't you think," he'd laughed, "that a stench so great could be created in the making of something so weak?"_

 _The pages of the Helki newspaper are flimsy and thin as he remembers, and it can't be more than a few weeks old. According to the date on the bottom of the page, Ronon's been running for eight years._

 _That night, he risks a fire, and burns every page. No wraith come._

\---

John's still waiting; Ronon blinks the memory away and makes a guess. "Ten years? Maybe eleven?"

John's eyes widen in surprise, doesn't know what to say for a moment. "That's a long time. Wow. How'd you manage it?"

"Kept moving. Killed them first." It sounds so much more simple, when he says it aloud, than it actually is. As if the weight of eleven years is nothing.

\---

It's happening less and less often, but the fact that Ronon can be so matter-of-fact about things like spending a decade on the run from _space vampires_ might just be more alien than the _actual_ wraith locked up at the other end of the room.

Ronon's lasted eleven years. On his own.

"You must be very good at what you do," John says weakly, regretting the words the moment they're out. Ronon doesn't come out and say _I didn't have a choice_ , he only shrugs, but John imagines the meaning clearly enough. "How do you go about it? They have any useful, ah, weaknesses?"

Ronon's eyebrows quirk in startled disbelief- funny, since John's been an inch away from that for the past few weeks now himself. After a moment, Ronon frowns in dismay. He's realizing that John's being serious.

"Cutting off their heads works. So does shooting them, if your guns are strong enough," he says with a measuring glance towards Cadman's gun, which he seems to find lacking. "Cutting off their hands will make them suffer longer." He speaks slowly, the same way one might explain something to a very small, very slow child. It's vaguely reminiscent of McKay trying to explain wormhole physics or the chair interface, and John's fairly certain that in another setting, Ronon would be laughing at him. One of these days, if he's lucky, John's going to catch up to the rest of the universe. "It's impossible to drown them, though. I've tried. The rest is all strategy."

It's the most Ronon's said at once, but John's not going to point it out. "Maybe you can talk our guys through it one of these days." Ronon tilts his head in what might be assent, but Cadman coughs quietly. She thinks he's overstepping his bounds, and she's probably right.

Nevertheless, it's an idea. As bureaucratic as they are, the IOA might go for it if it means increasing their options. Maybe if he gets Lorne on board with the idea first, Woolsey will hear it out.

"I'll talk to my people," he says, and his knees protest when he rises to his feet. Ronon follows his motion with his eyes.

Maybe John's just overreacting to the fact that Ronon's face is clean, or that this is the most aware he's been since he arrived, but looking up at John like this, unguarded and almost content, the man's startlingly stunning.

John's pretty sure he makes a terribly awkward picture as he hastens to make his exit. Just for the sake of contrast.

\---

Ronon's mind won't settle, and for once, the wraith hovering forever on the edges of his vision has nothing to do with it.

The things that John should know but doesn't are surprising, but then again, were this a world where the threat of the wraith was truly known, they would be damnably foolish to allow one to live. An insane wraith locked in a cell is still a wraith, and their faith in their glass walls is stupidly strong.

And while John seems to have the ear of his people, he doesn't rank among them. He wears no insignia, no uniform, and seems to have little, if any, sway over the guards that escort him. At the same time, though, he speaks not of commanders, but of _his people_. As if he answers to all of them, but not as if he speaks _for_ them. He barely tries to hide the fact that he has more questions than answers, and Ronon's sure that it's a weakness, but it's one he doesn't know how to exploit.

Resolve, power and knowledge are the greatest weapons. Ronon had pledged it daily in the academy, had felt the words shouting through his flesh when Kell drilled the squadron, and the words are still strong in him now, stronger than his brother's face in his memory. John has none of these save the first, and he talks as if it's enough to carry him through. As if it's enough to carry _all_ of them through.

Ronon wants to believe him anyway. Enough that when the day's done, and the guards come down to check on their prisoners for the night, he doesn't trick them into opening the cell door. He doesn't even try to escape. It's not that Ronon's hanging all his hope on one man. Kell had taught him everything, and then he'd taught him _that_. There's merely nothing stopping him from trying again tomorrow.

\---

The razor blade is dull and needs to be replaced; this is what John's thinking, in the morning, when the phone rings. For the next several seconds, he doesn't know that he's thinking at all.

It's Dave's number on the caller ID, and they haven't spoken in nearly a year. Not since Dad's last heart attack. It's not too hard to guess why he's calling; otherwise, he'd just save it for the Christmas newsletter that John can never read sober.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Hey, John. It's, ah. It's Dad." It doesn't occur to John, apparently, to feel anything at all until Dave's normally confident voice is on the verge of breaking. "He had another attack last night. Held on until about an hour ago, but..."

John closes his eyes, doesn't say any of the uncharitable things he's always imagined himself saying right now. They were never really meant for Dave, anyway. "Okay," he manages, reaching blindly for the towel, wiping off the last of the shaving cream. "Yeah. I'm on my way."


	10. Chapter 10

Woolsey is already in his office by six thirty in the morning, and is more awkwardly sympathetic than the situation honestly calls for. _No, of course John can have some time, they'll hold the fort down in the meantime, and if there's anything John needs?_ There isn't, not honestly, but Woolsey doesn't wait. By the time John is off the phone, an outbound ticket for his flight is already in his e-mail inbox, along with a note to have Tamara in HR sort out his return flight when ready.

 _As far as job perks go,_ John thinks two hours later, finding his seat in the last aisle of first class, this one's kind of morbid. Two minutes later, a woman sits in the row ahead of him, her dreadlocks- much tighter and neater looking than Ronon's- just visible over the back of her seat. The flight is actually much shorter than it seems.

The two hour drive from the airport to the ranch isn't nearly long enough. Just for contrast.

Dave, of course, has it all under control by the time John pulls up. His voice is clear again, unbreaking as they shake hands and hug in the front yard. It's not until they're breaking apart and trying to figure out to say to each other that reality sets in. Dad's dead. He'll be buried next to Mom in the family plot day after tomorrow. It's just them, now.

\---

 _The days are unending here; the sun burns too brightly. It's best to move at night, when it's cooler, when the animals come out of hiding. In the meantime, he sticks to the caves, watching carefully from the entrance as the wraith search the forest below._

 _They should've found him by now, but something's been slowing them down. They only ever begin to close the distance when night falls, and he's led them astray for eight, now. Feints towards the gate, then away when he sees the forces still waiting for him. Fewer than last night, but still too many. It'll be best to thin them out further, pick them off one by one._

 _The thin buzzing of another seeker drone draws near; he can hear it coming from behind and to the left. Crouching, he readies his gun and shoots it down; hopefully it hadn't seen him, but he can't count on it. He's gone before it falls to the ground._

 _Two wraith come, chasing the sound, and Ronon dispatches them quickly and quietly before heading back towards the river's embankment. The caverns there are shallow, but they've just been searched. If he's lucky, the wraith have moved on._

 _The sky is growing light. One more day of this burning world, maybe two. He can be patient._

\---

The morning passes without interest or incident, and the afternoon begins to stretch into more of the same.

John will be here soon. He'll have news.

 _It's only taking so long because you're waiting so hard_ , he chides himself.

The wraith has been silent for an age now, its head cocked to the side like it's listening to the ceiling, but its gaze is locked vacantly, unwaveringly on Ronon. It doesn't move.

Maybe it's finally dying. Maybe it's already gone.

Ronon chides himself for wondering. _It's a trick,_ he tells himself, but keeps glancing over anyway, hoping to prove himself wrong.

He doesn't know when it is- he _never_ knows when it _is_ , down here- that he finally starts shouting. Staring at the camera throws his tray against the wall, spattering the remnants of grease and vinegary red sauce all over the glass and spilling water everywhere, but nothing breaks. The thin plastic cup that had held his medicine rattles infuriatingly on the floor, and he crushes it under foot.

"Hello? Hello?! Somebody- _John?!_ " He strikes the glass with his fist, not even trying to shatter it, just trying to make noise. It's not enough. It's _never_ -

The only answer is silence, but the wraith is sitting up straight now.

 _So. Not dead._

It's suddenly a very ridiculous thing, to be standing here like this, throwing a tantrum like they've broken him. Dangerous, too. This world is petty and slow, and unlikely to respond well to this sort of outburst.

 _"This is what I warned you about."_ John, in Ronon's head, is clearly disappointed. _"My people were all set to agree, and then you did this?"_

The dread's strong enough that he can't look away when he hears the elevator moving. When it opens, though, it's not John, but Dr. Keller who follows the guards out. If he'd been expecting her, he would've expected the wary, sympathetic expression she's wearing, too. She's carrying a bag over her shoulder and is holding a bundle of small metallic objects. On any other world, he'd identify them as keys, but they bear no resemblance to the cards everyone here uses.

"Ronon?" She doesn't order them to open it and makes no movement to do so herself. "I was just on my way home. Is everything all right?"

"Where is John?" isn't an answer, but it's what he needs to know.

"Oh!" She seems surprised, for some reason embarrassed. "He had to leave this morning. He's spending a few days with his family. The IOA are still discussing your case and should come to a decision soon. In the meantime, everything is kind of on hold."

"When will he return?" He can't bring himself to ask about how the negotiations are going. If John's gone, there might not _be_ any.

"I don't honestly know," she frowns, like she's considering saying something and deciding against it, all at once. "Soon though. You'll find out soon, okay?"

 _It's not enough_ , Ronon glares at the floor.

"In the meantime, I've decided to take a few days off to visit my own family." Her grin is weak, like she knows that it's pointless and thin.

Somewhere, right now, John is with his family. Eating, talking. Maybe joking with each other, though Ronon can't picture him laughing, and it shouldn't twist at him like this.

Of course John has people who are important to him. If someone were to come down and offer Ronon the chance to spend time with his family, he wouldn't even stop to consider it. But nobody's coming down or making _any_ offers.

This entire world is full of people, and none of them are his. Not even John.

Ronon blinks, and it's just himself and the wraith again. He doesn't even know how long Keller's been gone.

\---

Most of the arrangements have been ready to go for months, it turns out. All that's really left is to loiter while Dave finishes notifying friends and family. There are a lot of names John doesn't recognize, business associates and distant cousins who've done a better job of staying in touch than he's managed.

He nearly calls McKay or Keller just to prove that he's capable, but it's hollow and pointless, and it's not like Ronon's going anywhere. An update would be nice, but not worth having to explain the situation. McKay would be awkward, Keller would make _John_ awkward. And someone would call him, anyway, if there were any developments with Ronon. He's nearly sure of it.

He wanders down to the stables and through the house, gradually closing in on the office where Dave's saying goodbye to someone that might be a relative. His orbit breaks off, sends him up towards the kitchen again. He's only putting off the inevitable- he's actually going to have to talk to Dave at some point- but Tessa, Dave's wife, has always been easier to deal with.

They make small talk- the weather, how the horses are doing, her work at the foundation, and when it's time to gather in the too-large dining room to pick at dinner, she carries most of the conversation. John is filled in on Becky's first semester at Purdue and lightly grilled about his new job with the FBI. Tessa steers them all clear of the icebergs; dinner's not nearly as unbearable as it could be. She's been around for eighteen years now, knows how to handle a Sheppard Family Function, even if it's just the three of them.

Still, though, it's a relief when she goes to pick up Becky from the airport. Neither of them need to be here for this, and with any luck, it'll be over with by the time they get back.

"So," Dave asks, refilling John's glass once they've toasted Dad. The scotch feels obligatory, but he's fairly certain Dave doesn't notice that he's doing it just to be polite. "I know this was supposed to be a small family thing, but. Is there anyone else you want to invite?" He's leaving it tactfully open-ended, but he's never been able to escape the family resemblance. It's too easy to hear Dad's voice in his words.

John bites back a comment about how small a gathering it could possibly be if they've reserved two hotel rooms in town for the guests, and shrugs. "Ah. Did you call Nancy?" He doesn't actually want to see her, not really, but he's out of ideas.

"She's due to have the new baby next week," Dave gives him a measuring glance, looking for a reaction. "Flying's not really an option. And your ex-wife from a decade ago isn't really who I was asking about."

"Yeah, well." Why Dave always has to be so insistent, John's never figured out. And it's a very inopportune time for him to start thinking about Ronon. _There haven't been any calls. Everything is fine_. "There's nobody."

Dave nods, pours them each another round. "You could tell me if there was, you know." He almost sounds hurt, and maybe he is. "It's not like Dad's around to rake you over the coals. And he got over it, you know. Past few years, since he had us move in."

"I know," John says. _Doesn't mean we wouldn't fight about it_. It's never been right that Dave's had to play intermediary, and they both know it, but proximity's a bitch. Makes it all to easy to get caught in the crossfire.

 _Well,_ John imagines himself saying, there is one guy I've been hanging out with lately. Dreadlocked, six-foot-million, and he comes from space. He's really something when he's unguarded, which is never, given the fact that he's currently a prisoner in the secret government facility, and the best I could hope for from him is a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome.

He cuts that line of thought off for the hundredth time today. Besides, there are so many things wrong with the statement that it should be easy to brush it off once Dave finally moves on, finally, to the matter of the will. It's enough of a buzz-kill that he actually manages, over the next hour, to reassure Dave that no, he doesn't want any part of the company, doesn't want anywhere _near_ Dad's money, it's just that he'd rather put it in trust for Becky.

"Dad's taken good care of her, John," Dave levels a frustrated glare at him, over the rim of his glass. He shakes his head as realization dawns, and in a moment, his patience will be gone, he'll finally get angry. Dave's can do diplomacy like nobody's business, but he's always been his father's son, and this is what they've been building up to all day. "This is just a final fuck you, isn't it?"

John shrugs. For all he know, Dave might be right. "Doesn't change anything. And I really don't want to fight about it with you, okay?"

Dave frowns, refuses to look at John for almost an entire minute, but he's starting to crack. His smirk is tired, but conspiratorial. "You could always donate it to the Democrats."

Father's son or not, he's always been John's brother, too. _Might do to remember that more than once a decade_ , he chides himself. Nevertheless, John knows when he's being let off the hook. "Amnesty International."

"The NAACP."

"Greenpeace."

Dave actually snorts. "Planned Parenthood," he says, and it goes downhill from there.

By the time the headlights of Tessa's Beamer flash through the front window twenty minutes later, John's settled on the Veteran's hospital where his buddy Miller had done his rehab.

"Dad would actually approve," Dave says quietly as they head for the door, glancing over like he's not sure if he's supposed to be warning John or laughing with him. Outside, Becky's clambering out, all nineteen years of her. She looks sleepy. Beyond that, John doesn't really know her. Which is the only reason he holds back for a second, just to get his head on straight.

\---

Becky's great, heading for a major in theoretical physics, and John can't tell her that wormholes are real, that faster than light travel exists, that everything she's excited about is actually out there for the taking. When Dave comments that he'd forgotten what a math nerd John had been back in school, he forces himself to shrug, like it's nothing. Like it's not suddenly horrible that he _can't_ talk about it.

"She's excited," he explains and Becky beams at him. Dave and Tessa, for their part, are happily bewildered. "It's infectious, you know?"

It doesn't last, though, once they've all turned in. He's still running over it in his head, and he knows tonight was a fluke, that tomorrow and the next day are going to be a lot more lacking in good humor.

He also knows, along with all the other things he can't tell Becky without violating his impressively comprehensive confidentiality agreement, that he's been gone for over eighteen hours, now, and that despite Woolsey's assurances, things can fall through the cracks. Email is out of the question, and though he'd been given got a secure cell phone, there have been no calls, no messages.

He has no idea if the IOA's reached a decision. No idea if anyone's bothered to tell Ronon what's going on.

It's not what he'd envisioned would be keeping him up this late, but it bothers him more than he would've thought.

\---

Just inside the locked cell door, a third tray of food replaces the second, which, like the first, is taken away uneaten. There's the usual bread, strange and square, and some mashed starchy thing that would taste like salt and little else, were Ronon to eat it. The smell of the stew fills his cell, enticing, but not so much that he's willing to give this up. He needs to convince them that he's too ill and weak to fight. This won't work, otherwise.

This has to work. It's his best chance, while John is away with the family, the people he cares about, while he's not here to placate Ronon into patience. While he's not here to make him want to try, not here to talk him out of freedom with a glance.

It would be so easy to hate John.

Ronon's supposed to hate him already.

\---

He hears one of the guards getting on the radio as they head back towards the elevator.

"Dr. Selby, this is Velasquez... Eight's still sleeping. Might want to keep an eye on it."

Ronon's careful not to show that he's heard, and instead stays on his cot, facing the darkest corner of his cell, listening. And he waits.

Above, the facility is slowly growing quiet. In a few hours, the guards will come again, look in at him briefly before turning the lights out. His body aches from remaining in the same position for so long, to the point where he's looking forward to the attack, when the guards come, as much as the escape. Just for the sake of movement.

If he thinks about it too much, he might end up giving himself away. Of this, Ronon is certain. It's impossible to tell the passage of time in the near darkness, but the guards don't come. For hours, he waits, listening carefully to the now silent facility, but there's nothing to hear.

The last of the lights go out suddenly, and Ronon gradually realizes that the guards are not coming.

Across the room, the wraith starts muttering to itself. It's impossible not to hear him.

"See nothing, they see all. See through you. Invisible. Alone. Brothers don't come. No rescue, no options. Wait, wait in the dark... nothing but inevitability..."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Ronon refuses to roll over, to ask who the wraith is talking about. He hums to himself, just to keep the voice at bay, and he knows he's getting it wrong. It should be much more familiar than it is; he vividly remembers a headache from loud drums and too much sun, the smell of grass and spilled wine. He can only remember part of the song, though, five notes that lead tantalizingly towards an afternoon he's forgotten before starting over again, winding around the wraith's words.

"...no escape, no home. Forgot it. _Gone_..."

\---


	11. Chapter 11

The house has been painfully quiet all day, but it won't be once the guests start to arrive. Tessa's sent Dave to the store for supplies and banned everyone from the kitchen while Becky hangs out in the living room, distractedly paging through a textbook.

John, for his part, is reaching the breaking point. He heads up into his room, listening carefully to make sure he's the only one on the floor before taking out his phone. Keller's line, once it's forwarded from her desk to her cell, goes directly to voice mail, but McKay picks up on the second ring.

"Hi John." he sounds puzzled. "I'm... sorry about your father?" There's a pause. "Sorry, ah. Keller told me what happened."

"That's actually part of why I'm calling," John says. "Her phone didn't even ring before going to voicemail."

There's a silence from McKay's line that either means that he's looking for notes, or that he's working on three other things at the same time. "She should be....yes. She's on a plane right now. Ah..."

"What?"

"Um. Apparently this thing with your father being...Yes. Well. She's taken a few days to go visit her family. Her mother hasn't been doing so well, and. You know."

"Oh." John's not sure that he does, but honestly, he's not thinking about that part of the equation. "Anyway. I was just trying to see if there was anything I needed to know about Ronon."

"Who?"

"Number Eight?"

"Right. Of course. Yes. Keller checked on him last night before she came home, said everything was fine. The appropriate personnel have been notified and he's being taken care of. Meals, meds, everything, and the camera's still in place. They're supposed to contact you if anything happens."

 _But is anyone talking to him?_ It sounds pathetic to his own ears; he doesn't ask. "Before she came home?"

"Er. Before she went home. Yes."

"Uh huh."

McKay sputters. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Well then. If that's all? I've got work to do."

"Then I'll let you get to it. Thanks, McKay."

"Sure thing. And. Ah. Sorry again about...you know."

"Thanks."

\---

Yesterday had been unbearable. Of the hundred or so other guests, few had anything worth saying. Even fewer had let that stop them. Then there'd been the speeches. Dave's had been great. Rehearsed, honest. He'd meant all of it. John had managed to string some words together and still hasn't remembered what they were. He's fairly certain some of them were lies, but nobody's called him on it, not even Dave.

Now, at least, that the coffin's being lowered into the grave, everyone is silent.

Any minute now, they'll be leaving this place before the noisy and distinctly un-ceremonial task of backfilling the grave happens. As he shakes the last stranger's hand on the way back to the line of cars, John catches a glimpse of the Bobcat in the open garage on the edge of the graveyard. Two men in green-gray uniforms are smoking, laughing about someone, too far away for anyone to hear.

John's so jealous of them his teeth ache.

\---

Tessa insists that he stay on for another day, help them go through some of the leftovers. The only reason John agrees is that he knows the three of them have decided to drive Becky back to school over the weekend. Nobody's going to awkwardly insist that he stay past tomorrow. He does, however, get online and set up his flight back home, and then, because _home_ means _work_ means _Ronon_ , he calls the facility. It's too late to catch Woolsey, but he leaves a message.

"How's Ronon doing?" John asks, once he's filled the voicemail in on his itinerary. "You don't have to, ah, call me back or anything. Just... idly wondering so I can hit the ground running when I come in Monday."

He hangs up once he's run out of words. Lying's getting easier by the day.

\---

Velasquez is short and dark, and tries to make eye contact but fails. Ronon doesn't know what he's supposed to say to him, or how to get him to tell him the things he really needs to know, and doesn't much look at him, either.

 _What have your people decided? When is John coming back? Why won't you people tell me anything? How long are you going to keep me down here?_

Under the vigil of the guards who'd just finished escorting him to the showers- this time without incident- he changes his bandages, warning him of every move he makes. In between, Velasquez fills the space with questions that might not be as idle as they sound. _Is his hair as heavy is it looks_ , and _where did the beads come from_ , and tell me about the tattoo?

At the end, though, as he's leaving, he finally looks Ronon in the face and says something worth hearing. "Just so you know, Doctor Keller is out until Monday, as is Mr. Sheppard."

Ronon frowns, thinks for a moment, but by the time he's got it, Velasquez is hastily explaining. "John Sheppard. He's still at his father's funeral, won't be back for two days." Grinning, now that he's got some traction, he continues. "In the meantime, the word going around is that the IOA is close to reaching a decision. Probably tomorrow. We'll keep you posted."

Careful not to push, Ronon manages to show that he's heard, nothing more.

Velasquez's grin lasts just a bit too long to be trusted.

\---

It takes some time for Velasquez's words to sink in. John is at his father's funeral, and for the rest of the day, it's all Ronon can do to stop the memories from becoming too real. Being called down to the offices at the academy the night before his final tests were to take place, the dread as he'd walked down the corridor, and then hearing and not hearing the words, these things he ignores. By the time his father's funeral had been arranged, Ronon had been too numb to feel anything. There's little he can remember of that day with any certainty. The surprise, however, upon hearing of the rockslide- his father had died without battle or warning- and the floundering sensation of trying to guess how to feel, these are not so easily pushed down.

Ronon had figured he'd stopped missing his father, thought it small in comparison to missing his entire world, but he hasn't completely unlearned it yet, he'd just forgotten. Remembering doesn't help.

He doesn't know John or John's father. Doesn't need to know how to feel, either, but it doesn't stop it from happening, and tonight, when the lights suddenly go dark and no guards are here to see, it's almost a refuge.

There's too much happening in his head to lock any one thought down, but as he rubs his hands over his face and tries to stop another shudder from pulling at his bandages, hating John Sheppard doesn't seem as easy as he's been thinking. Not right now. And if John were here, maybe Ronon would try to explain it.

Maybe not.

\---

Though it feels like he's barely just finished eating breakfast, it only means that they come bearing nothing but their guns when they step off the elevator. Their movements are more streamlined and quick than usual, and the one, Markham, is grinning a bit too widely. Even in the cell, Ronon makes them nervous.

"Well, Eight," Stackhouse seems willing enough to move past it. "The IOA is ready to meet with you. Unless you've got something more interesting going on?"

His heart skyrockets hard enough that Ronon stands without thinking. His voice, though, is thankfully unaffected. "Okay."

Markham opens the door, and Ronon is _so_ careful right now, moving slowly and forcibly deaf to the thoughts that _this_ could be the escape he'd been too distracted to prepare for. He steps into the elevator, arms straight down at his sides, and he's not surprised when a third guard joins the retinue when they arrive on level three.

The corridor is short, the room they guide him into large and open, but windowless. There are two chairs facing each other in the middle of the room, and he's waved to take a seat.

"It'll just be a minute," Stackhouse says as they leave. "Just hold tight."

 _Whatever that means_.

Once they're gone, Ronon resumes his survey. Each of the four corners of the room has a camera; they all seem focused on him. Evidently, they've decided they can trust him in a room with one other person, but don't trust him enough not to watch every angle of the conversation.

He doesn't have time to formulate a statement, an explanation. Despite John, he doesn't actually know enough about these people, to know what they're going to want to talk about. His actions in the shower, probably. What he'd been doing on Sateda, again. What the hell he is to the wraith, that won't be a problem to answer. But why they should trust him?

Because he didn't break Markham's neck in the elevator. Didn't shoot Stackhouse with his own gun. Because he _stayed_ in his cell because of John and hope and something like trust. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe it won't.

He's running strategy, trying to guess how many guards they'll send in to watch from the doorway. How he'd have to grab the person sitting in the chair across from him and use them to his advantage. Eight different ways to disarm them, no idea where he'll go once he gets the door open again. If it's even possible.

He forces his fingers not to twitch for a gun that's nowhere to be found.

Outside, there are footsteps approaching. Five sets. The strides of one are longer than the others, and he can't quite place it, can't _think_ for all the anticipation that's building. He's not even sure what he's waiting for any more- a pardon, an excuse to attack, an opening- but in the next instant, it no longer matters. The door swings open.

The wraith's attacking before the door slams shut again.


	12. Chapter 12

Ronon's already on his feet, and doesn't need a knife or a gun or a stunner, he can kill the with his bare hands, but the wraith is already lunging towards him; clawed hands, wild eyes, bared teeth, all hunger. And all rushing right at him. Ronon has just enough time to anchor himself, plant his feet wide as he deflects the mass that crashes into him, twisting the wraith's arm as it swings past, toppling both chairs, breaking one of them as it falls.

They need the space anyhow, and Ronon dives for the splintered chair leg that's sent skittering across the floor. Behind him, he can hear the wraith roaring to its feet too quickly.

He manages to grab the spike, adjusting his grip as he flips himself over, bringing it up just as the wraith tackles him, its fingers splayed and deadly. There's no room to maneuver for better aim, no way to skewer the hand- it's coming in too low, too fast, crashing into his chest as the wraith's breath hisses wetly against his face. Ronon doesn't watch for the realization to register on the wraith's face.

The wraith is still starving. But it's also still alive.

Grabbing the wraith's wrist, he twists, sharply, bringing his other shoulder up enough to force the wraith off of him as Ronon rolls them both over. The chair leg isn't sharp enough to penetrate at first; he has to put all his weight on it as he attempts a second thrust, and after an initial resistance, the skin finally breaks, the ribs part. Sickly green-black blood spurts out around the wood as the wraith struggles around the wound, it slick's Ronon's grip, spatters his clothing and face until he can taste it. The smell is so strong- rotten insects and molding plants- that Ronon doesn't feel the hand shoved up tightly against his chest, again, until it's already there.

With a roar, Ronon jerks the chair leg to the side, widening the wound; he feels it hit against something hard deep in the wraith's chest. Gurgling a roar and trying to grab the wood from it's abdomen, the wraith finally shoves Ronon away, but it's weak, and Ronon doesn't go far. The action only serves to give him the room he needs to lunge forward, grab the wraith by the head, and twist sharply. Its voice cuts out with a wet sinewy crack, and Ronon lets it fall to the floor.

His foot slips out from underneath him as he stands. The wraith's blood is growing cold and tacky where it's starting to dry, and he resists the urge to scratch. Though his back is throbbing, the spiking agony he'd felt when he'd landed on the tracker has faded, and a quick inventory finds no new injury. Past his heart beating in his ears, he can hear the forces gathering outside, and he turns to face the door.

This is the most alive he's felt in weeks.

\---

"You've done well, Ronon Dex." The man steps from behind the wall of soldiers. His confidence, as he walks into at least two lines of fire, is arrogant, and reflected plainly on his face. "We thank you for your time."

There are still two guns and one stunner that have a clear shot at Ronon, but the two soldiers jostling behind Coolidge in the narrow doorway are unlikely to risk catching him in the crossfire.

"Who are you?"

"My name is James Coolidge. I have been appointed to determine the feasibility of integrating you into our operations. While the duration and extent of this will still need to be determined, your actions have shown that an alliance is viable."

"I'm not interested in an alliance." The adrenaline rush is fading too quickly, but he doesn't let on. "I'm interested in _leaving_."

"I'm afraid that is not an option at this time," Coolidge says.

"Then there's nothing to talk about," Ronon decides, but when Coolidge nods, it's not agreement but a signal.

He's down on the floor, stunned, and everything is too distant again, too muffled. He can't even close his eyes.

\---

John makes good time, and makes it through airport security with an hour and a half to spare. It's strangely peaceful. He knows nobody here, and nobody knows him. Nobody expects anything of him until he arrives back in Vegas, and the notion is startlingly freeing. For a while, he just wanders the terminal, dodging the moms herding kids and businessmen panting into their cell phones as they stride towards their gates.

He's just sat down with coffee and a newspaper, glancing at the crossword when his phone rings and reminds him that while all this might be reality, it's not _his_ reality.

"Keller? What's going on?"

"Hi John. Sorry to call you like this, but. How soon can you get back?"

"I'm already at the airport. Boarding in 30 minutes. What happened?"

"I don't even know where to start. I just got back to work late this morning and found out. The IOA, they went around our backs. They exposed Ronon to the wraith, and-"

" _What?_ "

"Ronon killed it before getting stunned himself. I checked him over again when he was out, and physically, he doesn't seem worse for wear." Keller sighs. "But far as mentally goes..."

John tosses the crossword onto the seat next to him and rubs a hand over his face. "Who signed off on this?"

"The IOA."

" _Woolsey?_ "

"I don't know how they could've worked around him," Keller admits. "They were all in his office when I went to talk to him. Tensions were running high and he told me to come back in an hour. That was... fifteen minutes ago."

"Right. Well. Get what you can out of him. I'll head straight over, call you right when I land."

\---

Finally, _finally_ the "Fasten Seat Belt" sign is turned off and John can turn his phone on again. Keller doesn't have much for him; mostly that Ronon's awake now, and while he's not letting anyone near him, he's not attacking anyone, either.

"He didn't panic this time, waking up in the infirmary," Keller says. "Wasn't thrilled to be here, but nothing any different than what I see from anybody. But really, I think it'll be better when you get here."

"Why?"

"I went along when the guards came to move him back down to his cell. Stayed a minute just to make sure he was settled in okay, and because it was pointed out to me that he doesn't act out as much when you or I are around. Once he was locked in, I asked him if he needed anything. He just asked when you were coming back."

\---

John gets in his car and doesn't hit the breaks until he reaches the facility, where he storms into the conference room to find Woolsey, Coolidge, and Ambassador Shen already gathered, along with three other suits John doesn't recognize. "Why wasn't I informed of this _before_ it happened?"

"Given the new intel we've been receiving, it was agreed that we had to move quickly." The intonation in Woolsey's voice makes it clear that he's taking issue with the _we_ part of the statement. It's impossible to tell, though, who he's most furious with. "There simply wasn't the time to wait."

"So. Why did you do it?" John doesn't give a damn about the intel right now. "You realize you did just flush all my work down the tubes, right? There's no _way_ Ronon's going to trust us, now that we've _locked him in a room with the wraith_."

"We had a theory that needed testing." Coolidge states. "We needed to know if the resistance trait was merely a genetic anomaly, or if it was physically exhibited."

"And if it wasn't? If Ronon _died_?"

"If he _had_ \- which, I must point out, he _hasn't_ , we would then know to move on to more viable avenues of research," Woolsey's jaw is set; he's clearly still angry and trying to salvage what he can. "At least we now can be certain that Ronon Dex is not allied with the wraith."

"Not that _particular_ wraith, anyway," Coolidge mutters with a glance at his notepad. He reminds John of his high school principal

John grabs the back of an empty chair, but doesn't sit down. "So are you satisfied?"

"Never," Ambassador Shen raises quirks a brow and smothers a smirk; it's impossible to tell if she thinks she's in on the joke. "But you must appreciate that what happened in there was the best of all possible outcomes. Resistance to feeding is possible. And the wraith we've had living here has finally been disposed of in a useful manner."

"So what now?"

"The wraith will be passed on to our biologists for study. It _is_ , after all, the most intact specimen we've yet to encounter here Earth." That isn't what he meant, and Coolidge knows it. He's making him ask.

 _Be that way. Jackass._

"And Ronon?"

"Well, once the medics have finished monitoring his condition, we can begin to integrate him more fully into the program. Starting tomorrow morning."

 _Tomorrow. Of course. Why not put it off longer?_

"You sure you want to _bother_ integrating him?" John snorts. "You _could_ just leave him down there until there's a wraith that needs to be killed with his _bare hands_."

"Yes," Coolidge nods, flipping his notepad closed as he stands. "We could."

"Hold up a second," John shakes his head. He's losing the plot, here. "What about just letting him go? Head through the gate, go back to Pegasus?" Coolidge doesn't go so far as to roll his eyes, but he does mutter to himself, something about civilians not knowing what they're dealing with.

"That would be the best use of his capabilities, yes," Woolsey agrees with a sharp glance at Coolidge. "But as the Pegasus expedition is currently without major air support until the threat here on Earth has been handled, I refuse to do anything that exposes our people to more risk than what they're already dealing with. And for that matter, I've recommended that his tracker be removed before he be allowed to fly back with the Daedalus. For that, Dr. Keller insists that we bring on Dr. Carson Beckett from Atlantis, as he's more familiar with wraith technology."

"Which will take a while," John finishes for him. _Hence the integration. More time to groom him for service. He's already here, he might as well get drafted._.

 _TBC..._


	13. Chapter 13

Ronon's sitting on his bunk when John exits the elevator, hunched over with the palms of his hands pressed against his eyes. It doesn't bode well, but John asks, anyway.

"How're you doing?"

Dropping his hand, Ronon squints up at him. He's a little pale, and he's not smiling, but what John's been expecting is _so_ much worse. "Head hurts."

"I'll bet. Look. I'm sorry about what happened." With the guards waiting at the top of the elevator, stunners at the ready in the event of an escape attempt, there's nobody down here to unlock the door for John, either, so he leaves it open as he steps inside. If Ronon feels slightly less backed into a corner, so much the better. "And for what it's worth, I had no part in it."

"The doctor said." Ronon nods. "You were with your people."

"Yeah." John doesn't know what to say; honestly, he'd been expecting Ronon to be in much rougher shape, and he doesn't want to be thinking about Dave and Dad and the life outside this facility that he still, apparently, lays claim to. Ronon's blinking, trying to focus on him. "Do you need to go see her again? For your head?"

"It's just a stunner headache." Suddenly, Ronon's looking at him like he's amused, or relieved, or maybe even bordering on happy, and it's derailing as hell. "Ah, well. Okay. Anyway. She'll be down again later today, maybe you should mention it. How's your back doing?"

"Tore some stitches. Think the doctors fixed them while I was under." He shrugs stiffly, and a moment goes by where John's honestly not doing much that scoping out the side of his neck, running down behind the collar of his shirt, until Ronon's words snap him out of it. "Why did they do that?"

"Stitch you up?"

"Let me fight the wraith."

" _Let_ you?" John blinks. _Oh._

His confusion prompts Ronon to gesture over at the empty cell, as if to clarify. "I thought you were all trying to starve it to death."

"They got some new intel. The wraith's presence, I'm guessing, made them nervous." Sitting down at the floor, he catches Ronon's glance towards the open, unguarded door. When he doesn't move for it, John continues. "Anyhow. Timing worked out so that someone decided it would be a good idea to test you. One, they wanted to know if you were resistant to having the wraith feed on you. But they also wanted to see what you'd do, locked in a room with one. If the two of you would act like allies or enemies."

Ronon's raised eyebrow is so skeptically unimpressed that John snorts. "For what it's worth, I think you managed to change a few minds. They're still working out the details, but they're talking integration."

"What?"

"Making you a part of the operation. I think their hope is that you'll be grateful enough to stick around and help out once the surgeon's arrived from Atlantis to remove your tracker. Though objective number one, far as I'm concerned, is upgrading your accommodations at the very least. This floor sucks."

For whatever reason, Ronon actually _does_ smile. Then he shifts, moving along towards the rear wall and nodding down at the space he's just cleared on the bunk. He doesn't even make a break for the door when John's distracted by the arduous task of standing. _Maybe he's waiting to strangle you_ , he catches himself thinking, and it's a shitty derailment. He's the one who's supposed to be on Ronon's side in all of this. If he can't convince himself, there's no way he'll be able to convince anyone who matters.

It's telling, though, how Ronon stiffens ever so slightly when John sits down next to him. John's not the only one testing the waters, here.

"You seem...better," John says, scanning him close up. "Than before, I mean. Last week."

Maybe they're not there yet, but Ronon raises his chin in the direction of the now empty cell as if that's all the explanation that's needed. Maybe the scenery hasn't changed as much as Ronon would like, but it's a start.

Refusing to be exasperated, John tries again, goes back to the point he'd meant to make before. "You said they _let_ you fight the wraith."

"I'm not so good at sitting around, so..."

He's missing the point entirely. "You _do_ get that they were putting you in a position where you could've gotten killed, right? They didn't even give you a weapon."

"Didn't need one. Found one anyway." Ronon's tone could mean anything from _I've fought with less_ , to _your people are weak and pathetic_.

"Yeah, well. I don't like it. I mean. You don't throw people away like that. Or, well, put them in a situation where that's a possible outcome, you know?"

Ronon gives it some thought, actually turns to look at John and frowns, as if _John's_ the one missing the point. "They didn't throw me away. They got _out_ of my way." There's annoyance in Ronon's eyes- that probably never goes away, not completely- but he's not _angry_ , and part of John really _wants_ him to be, to understand how _fucked_ this all is. But what Ronon says next knocks it out of his head completely. "But thanks, though. For checking."

Five words that can't mean as much as John's making them mean, and Ronon's looking away again, staring at his own hands. John nods at nothing, hopes it means _yeah_ or maybe even you're welcome, but Ronon seems more comfortable with this new silence than John is. The fact that Ronon's finally decided that it's okay to speak first, however, goes a long way to assuage the slowly building awkwardness.

"So why do they want me working for them? Your planet is large enough for the wraith to be interested. Your forces must be strong enough to fight."

"Yeah, but most of them don't know that _we_ exist, let alone the rest of it. This facility here, life on other worlds, all of it. It's all a secret." Not for the first time, John's taken aback at the fact that the secret's been this well _kept_. "I only found out about it a few months ago. There are still, _literally_ , billions of people who don't have a clue."

Ronon stiffens minutely, and too late, John realizes that he's just thrown this uneasy camaraderie right out the window.

\---

Ronon's dreamt of an existence where the threat of the wraith is unknown, but hearing that it's real is like a slap in the face. Billions of people. There are _billions_ of people, here, and they don't know, because the people in charge hoard the knowledge.

And the wraith are coming, because the wraith will _always_ come, and- Ronon can't even think, but apparently he can still move. He stands, puts his back against the wall just to feel the sharp spray of pain sparking down his spine and out towards his limbs; looking at John would hurt more.

 _Two small ships had come through the gate outside the capital; both had been shot down before reaching the city walls. Word spread quickly of the Satedan victory, but inside the command hall, the mood had been grave. The northern observatory had reported in; their telescopes had picked up two large hives entering Satedan orbit._

 _The order had been given nearly an hour ago. All over the city, people were packing and heading out to the ring for evacuation. Ronon had been at the base, awaiting his orders; he'd seen Kell's face fall as the second report came in. Three more hives had been spotted in the southern skies, moving much more quickly than the first two._

 _They've already lost, they just don't know it yet. Ronon's orders haven't changed, but the objective has. It's not about victory any more, it's about ensuring that there's anything left at all for the survivors to come back to once the danger has passed._

 _There won't be many survivors. There's just not enough time._

 _Ronon fights his way against the tides of people swarming towards the city gates; it's slow going, but it could be so much worse. Few are carrying anything more than a day's supplies. Still, though, small children are crying, and the tensions are already high. The rioting hasn't started yet. Soon, though, it will. As long as the inevitable is held back long enough to get Melena out to the ring, the lie will be worth it._

 _Finally, the apartment he shares with Melena is in sight, down at the end of the block. She has to be there, has to be packed and ready to go. Everything's gone so badly today, he needs this one thing to go right. If she can make it through the gate-_

 _Rounding the fence, he nearly collides with two of his neighbors, an young couple who work in the schools, whose names Ronon can't afford to remember right now. He's helping her with her bag as they join the throng; she catches Ronon's eye and nods in something like resigned sympathy. They don't know about the new directive, or the documents that they'll need to get through the ring. Nobody here does but Ronon._

 _He pats at his pocket as he nods back, and says nothing as he passes. He'd signed everything over to Kell, the insured Satedan accounts, and the Bersi and Sinetian ones as well, and in return had obtained one piece of paper that's worth more than all of them combined. It's a simple document, handwritten, that identifies Melena's appointment as medic, and it would be meaningless were it not for Kell's seal._

 _Ronon enters quickly and slams the door shut on the people outside. Taking the stairs two at a time, he can hear the radio playing in their apartment. Melena's listening, she doesn't know yet, and Ronon finds himself absurdly pausing before opening the door. He's going to have to convince her, he'll have to promise to win this, and right now, Ronon knows, he's no better than the Chieftain's empty promises, telling Sateda that there's a future, that they'll all survive._

\---

John's seen suspects suddenly realize the immensity of their actions in the interview room, so badly that they'd confess to crimes committed ten years before they'd been born. He knows of defendants on vehicular manslaughter charges holding up through their trial and conviction, only to be blindsided by it weeks or months later, and sat for hours with a woman who'd turned herself in ten seconds after shooting her husband in the chest. He's also met one or two murderers who'd been clinically unable to feel any remorse at all, and anyway, this is a lot of things, but it's not a homicide.

What he's seeing in Ronon's face is disgust, and it's still in his eyes when he finally levels his gaze in John's direction. His posture, though, loosens.

"The experiment. They get what you need from me?"

Managing a nod, John scowls at Ronon's low fatalistic tone, dimly realizing that what he's seeing in the slump of his shoulders isn't relaxation but resignation, and he wants to shake it from him, break him out of this, but Ronon's already speaking.

"Then kill me or set me free."

John can do neither, and before he can even start to begin explaining it, Ronon's eyes dim, as if he's already decided which it's going to be.

\---

Ronon had finally settled in about an hour ago, but the light of him lying on his side on the cot isn't at all enlightening. John knows he's missed something, and staring at the security feed from the privacy of his own office isn't doing any good. There's no useful monologue, no sudden revelations. Just Ronon, on his side on the cot. He might be sleeping; more likely he's just tuning out. His face is nearly relaxed, but for the frown that never entirely disappears.

John doesn't blame him, but he doesn't know how to help. He wants to, though, badly. And that, as much as anything, should be setting off the warning bells. His objectivity is shot to hell.

It would be one thing if he could couch it as commitment to his work, or even an idle empathy for the underdog. That really, all he's been doing for the past half hour is staring at Ronon's mouth, the corner of his jaw like he's cataloguing every last detail? Or entertaining fleeting impulses to storm down there, wrap an arm carefully over Ronon's shoulders, and _make everything better_.

Only he doesn't know how to do that. His voyeuristic eye on the security feed is really the only way to convince himself that he's doing anything at all. The email to Woolsey he's been trying to compose isn't even half finished- he hasn't been able to go more than a sentence without the vitriol seeping through onto the screen. Another day or two, maybe, and he'll be able to sort it out.

The only thing he knows for certain is that he'll be stopping at the liquor store on the way home. He'll probably need groceries, too, and hell, he still has to unpack. Technically, he's not even _back_ yet.

Footsteps in the hall drag his attention away from the junk mail that's probably piled up at the apartment during his absence, and he sits up in his chair as McKay, not bothering to knock, swings the door open and invites himself inside.

"So," McKay hasn't shaved in two days, and the lines in his face are deeply set, he seems to be running on fumes and determination. "In case you haven't heard. Turns out we've been having some issues with the sensors at two of our deep space observation posts, they've been skewing our calculations. The new telemetry data from our deep space sensors indicates that the wraith are going to be getting here _not_ in three and a half weeks, but in eight days. So. How's _your_ day going?"

John's blindsided by the reminder of why they're all actually here. This was the intel Woolsey had mentioned; the fact that he'd forgotten so completely about it is galling, and the instinctive panic is hard to swallow around. Perspective, however, doesn't make the processing any easier. " _Seriously?_ "

McKay's grin is thin and humorless. "The chair's down for the day so we can remove some of the failsafes. Should get rid of that half-second firing lag. We'll have it up and running before the day's out. But we're going to need you down there first thing in the morning to make sure the adjustments haven't opened up any new issues." There are dark circles under his eyes, and he needs a shave even though it's not that late in the day yet. "So how'd it go with the IOA?"

"They didn't trust Ronon in the first place, and this stunt they pulled hasn't put them too high up on his list, either. On top of that, I don't have enough clout with the IOA to move things along, so convincing Ronon that we're worth the effort is pretty much a wash."

"What would you do if you did?"

"If the IOA is serious about integration, we need him out of that cell. Right now, they're using the tracker as an excuse to stall, and Ronon needs to hear what's going on from somebody other than me." _Seeing as how my credibility's pretty much in the gutter_ , he nearly adds. But the reality of it isn't any less hard to admit. "I can mediate, sure, but right now I'm just the messenger. We need everyone at the table." He shifts his screen to show McKay his sent messages, lets him take over to click through all seven of them. There's only one response, a vague "we're working on it," from the building operations supervisor. It would almost be heartening if that line hadn't been immediately followed by the inevitable. "As soon as it's cleared by the IOA."

John knows when McKay reaches the words because he snorts and shakes his head. "Idiots, the lot of them. Typical." His smirk is conspiratorial when he straightens, and John's hanging on every word before they're even spoken. "Here's what you've got to do."

It's another two hours of emails and runarounds before he manages to arrange the conference call. While Colonel Carter, at Cheyenne Mountain, sounds furious, General O'Neill's glee carries even more clearly all the way from Washington. "You're telling me that you'd like me to pull rank and bitchslap the IOA around their own conference table? Of _course_ I'm in."

There's a mild surge in background noise when Dr. Jackson takes his phone off mute. "With your permission, Sheppard, I'd like to bring Teal'c in to consult." he says. "He's got more experience as an off-worlder dealing with the IOA than anyone-"

"Hey!" An unidentified woman is speaking on Jackson's line. She's not close to the phone, but her voice carries. "I have plenty myself, you know, and I'm not currently a _billion_ light years away. _And_ I'm friendly, and _so_ very bored-"

Jackson hurries to speak over her, his tone long-suffering. "-and _isn't_ likely to cause an interplanetary incident running around your base." The moment the words are out, the background noise- and woman's voice- is cut off abruptly.

"I don't know, Daniel, it sounds like that's exactly what's needed," O'Neill says to the hole the noise leaves.

" _Don't encourage her_ ," Jackson comes back online just long enough to get the words out, then comes back to add, "Also? I hate you."

"Then it's all set," Carter cuts in. "I'll dial Atlantis before the day's out, let Dr. Weir know what's going on, see if she has any ideas."

"We haven't even arrived, and you're doubting my diplomatic abilities?"

"No, I'm sure of them," Carter bites back, and John's smiling not so much at the specifics of the back and forth, but the fact that it's present at all. "And Daniel? Vala? Sounds like you two are going stir crazy down there. You go ahead and see if Teal'c can fit us in."

" _Thank you_ ," Jackson and the woman- Vala, apparently- answer in unison.

Another three minutes, and they've arranged to arrive in three days.

Another five minutes after that, and John's office door is kicked down by standard-issue boots, and if the plastic restraints clutched in Markham's fist aren't enough, three guns, held low and ready, spell it out nicely.


	14. Chapter 14

The cuffs are there for intimidation, the guns are protocol, and though none of them are actually used, the fact that they're so clearly just for show is only an indication of what's to come when Woolsey and Coolidge join him and his guards in the conference room.

Neither of them, it's obvious, have any background in suspect interrogation. The fact that they're forgetting to actually ask him questions is the most obvious tell. For the most part, Coolidge and Woolsey argue over his head, picking apart every conceivable angle of the same few points. It's hard to tell who's angrier; Woolsey's the only one making half an effort to hide it.

"The fact of the matter is that we've got to at least be willing to contemplate that you've been compromised. One does not simply call up the general and send him in to take over someone's _pet project_." Coolidge is sweating, underneath his suit, and the fact that he's so blatantly pointing out his real concern is a little galling. Military or civilian, they hate it when their link on the chain of command is skipped. "What I can't understand is why you decided that wasting the time and resources of several departments was preferable to patience. It's all well and good to want to let him out of the cell and hope for the best, but there are a hundred different projects happening here, twice that many security protocols, and while we've been _working_ on them-

"Sure you have," John mutters, and the glare he receives in return is nearly gratifying.

Woolsey shakes his head. "These things take _time_ , Mr Sheppard. You must understand that. For one, this facility was never intended for residential use. More importantly, however, is our directive. We have the safety of this entire base, and everyone in it, to consider. Never _mind_ the other 7 billion people on the planet we're accountable to."

"Don't talk about being accountable for the well being of others," Sheppard grinds out, sneering mostly at Coolidge, since he's clearly needing a reason to play bad cop in this equation, and the fewer bridges he burns with Woolsey, the better. "You fell off that high horse the moment you even _considered_ your little experiment, and the ride hadn't been going all that smoothly _beforehand_."

"Unfortunately, your actions are not unimpeachable enough to bear out your words," Woolsey sighs, "seeing as how they seem to indicate a definite growing, well, I don't know whether to call it bias or affinity or what, with Mr. Dex."

Taking up where Woolsey leaves off, Coolidge points emphatically at John. "The fact alone, that you didn't see fit to follow basic security protocols, is dubious enough. And believe me, had Mr. Dex decided to attempt an escape, the charges you'd be brought up on would be quite serious indeed. But deciding of your own volition to ignore the proper chain of command so brazenly? That doesn't indicate his willingness to ally himself with us, it merely indicates that you've allied yourself with _him_."

 _Maybe I have_. The words are fast on his tongue, it's just his teeth clenching shut that stop them being spoken. "Look. I _do_ trust him. And no offense, honestly, but you hired me to do exactly this. Had my input carried any weight with you at all, or had your committee been able to reach any sort of actionable agreements, this wouldn't even be an issue. So. You want to charge me with something, find something to charge me with. You want to fire me, go right ahead. You want any sort of results? Give me something to work with."

Coolidge's face has gone completely red with anger by the time he's done speaking, and Woolsey is shaking his head. It's not until the steel comes back into Woolsey's eyes that John realizes why.

"No, Coolidge. He's right. We _do_ need him. For one, the wraith will be here in a matter of days, and he's the one person on the planet best suited to work our last line of defense, and the IOA, honestly, has a hundred other matters we need to be focusing on in the meantime. And unless you want to reassign Keller from all her duties in the medical department, there's nobody in this facility that has half Sheppard's rapport with Mr. Dex."

Coolidge sneers, tapping the edge of the folder he's carrying against the palm of his hand. "Mr. Dex is not the priority."

"He's enough of a priority for you to be watching Sheppard's every move on the security feeds," Woolsey points out. "He's enough of a priority that you're wasting my time, John's, and your own with all this. And might I remind you, there's a good possibility that the wraith will be swarming Earth next week. How could Ronon Dex _possibly_ make it any worse?"

"Well, he's already fostered insubordination from Mr. Sheppard, who in turn has seen fit to presume to give orders to Marines. Things don't get tightened up around here, there's no telling how far that kind of behavior could spread. It doesn't just _end_ with them waiting at the top of the elevator in case Mr. Dex _only escapes that far_ , and never mind the fact that one guarded level does _little_ to protect the other several floors of this facility. I'm sorry," Coolidge says icily, turning on Woolsey, "but at this point in time, we need to assess the information at hand to determine not only whether Mr. Sheppard is truly the right man for his job, but if you're the right one for _yours_."

Coolidge slips a piece of paper out of the file he's holding and hands it Woolsey. John's not sure what passes between them in the glares they're exchanging, but a few moments later, John's barely surprised to be led out of the office by the same guards that had brought him here. The only thing that stands out, really, is that when they get off the elevator, John's shown to his own cell.

\---

Unscheduled elevator arrivals are unsettling enough when John's _not_ being led, stone faced, into the cell next to his own, but obviously things have somehow managed to change for the worse. Not much is said, as the guards lock the door; they barely glance in Ronon's direction, but as they're leaving, Markham glances over his shoulder apologetically. When the door closes behind them, John is still looking after them, and John says nothing, either, once the elevator's finished moving to another floor.

"What's-"

John shakes his head furiously- _not now_ \- and paces the short length of his cell, back and forth again a few times before he seems to realize what he's doing, and sits down with a sigh. He probably doesn't want to be stared at right now, so for the most part, Ronon keeps him in the periphery as he returns to his own bunk and waits, fingernails digging into his palms. If John wanted to talk, he would've done so by now.

It takes a few to notice the pattern. John's sitting with his body turned slightly towards Ronon, though he rarely makes eye contact. Instead, he frowns, every so often, at the camera up in the far corner of the room. His agitated glare then shifts, turning inward, and moments later, the cycle begins again.

Finally, Ronon can take it no longer. "What happened?"

John's eyebrows twitch, his eyes _finally_ meet his, and there's an apology there that sets Ronon's teeth on edge. "Long story short? They've been watching me, don't like how I'm handling things." That, at least, explains the cameras. And possibly his sudden reluctance to speak, though it's never seemed to be a problem before. "They think I'm in league with you, that we're going to- I don't even know. Turn traitor or something."

John's people seem to have an affinity for jailing those they'd have fight for them. The observation starts off in the background, a small thing that probably quickly would've been cast aside if John had said more, but the silence gives Ronon too much time to contemplate it. It's not useful information. A detail that won't fix anything. He needs a plan, something solid to build it on. If John's in here, then he's of little use as an ally.

Apparently, Ronon's no better at valuing people than they are.

He closes his eyes and stretches his neck, his fingers fidgeting for something, a tool, a weapon, something to keep his hands occupied, but it's becoming frighteningly easy to ignore the instinct. "What happens next?" he finds himself asking the floor. It's not a rhetorical question, however, and the lack of answer draws his attention back to the next cell.

"John?"

John's staring at the far wall, unseeing, and he's biting the inside of his lip. The hours it must have been since he's last shaved are starting to darken the shadows of his face, giving him a sickly, gaunt appearance, and the lack of color in his face only makes it worse. Ronon stands up again, moves towards the wall between them. The camera's always been there. It doesn't change anything.

John's breathing _much_ too roughly to be a ghost- Ronon can hear it clearly through the glass, every stutter and rasp, and John's shoulders hitch with every inhalation. It's been so long since he's seen panic on anyone else's face that he's not certain John's actually hyperventilating, and there's nothing he can do for him here except pound on the glass, try to startle him out of it, distract him.

" _John!_ "

John's head swivels up, too much white in his widening eyes as he starts gasping, clutching at his knees and forcing his shoulders back to give his lungs room to fill. His breath is all that Ronon can hear, now, there's no room in it for words. All Ronon's done is make John realize that something really _is_ wrong.

Ronon glances towards the doors, but no help is coming, so he crouches down and pretends more confidence than he's feeling.

"John. Hey. You're fine. You need to calm down." Ronon exhales slowly, partially to school his monotone back into place, partially to remind John how breathing's done. He was never good at this, never made for this, taking care of people in ways that didn't include fighting. He could never exude calm like Melena could, could never lie well enough to believable say _everything's okay_ , but John's watching him, head nearly nodding through his panic; trying to let him try. "Just. Breathe, okay?"

He takes a deep breath himself, lets it out slowly. Then again.

It doesn't even take a minute. John's nodding hasn't ceased, but the movement's less abstract, more measured and deliberate and the color's washing back to his skin.

As soon as John's recovered enough to no longer require Ronon's assistance, his eyes shutter closed. Ronon takes the opportunity to sit down on the floor, his knees pressed awkwardly against the glass. It's as close as he can get, and maybe it'll make up for the fact that he's got no idea at all what he's supposed to say.

\---

John's only had one panic attack that he can remember, and it hadn't been when his chopper was going down, or even when he realized that there was no getting back to safety, and that Holland- _fuck, Holland_ \- wasn't going to make it out of the desert alive. It hadn't even happened two hours later when the Afghan reinforcements captured him.

It had been three months later, stateside, sitting in the too-bright hallway outside the conference room, waiting for the final decision to come down and knowing, already, what it was going to be. Disobeying a direct order. Dereliction of duty. They hadn't had enough hard evidence to nail him on the various ways he and Holland _might_ have transgressed the Uniform Code, and John hadn't been about to tell them anything, but they'd had enough on him that the outcome had most likely been a foregone conclusion.

Strangely worse, though, and more immediate, had been the sensation of sand and grit underneath his fingernails. He'd had to ball his fists just to stop from picking at them, had to force himself to remember that he'd showered at least a dozen times since the hostage exchange.

He'd had to sit there, in the polished-clean corridor, listening to uniformed footsteps clicking purposefully throughout the building, and convince himself that he wasn't still _there_. He'd had to remind himself that _there_ was actually worse than _here_.

And that's when he'd lost control of his breathing.

By the time he'd pulled himself out of it, two airmen and a Captain he'd never met were staring down at him, in bland, distant confusion.

\---

John's not met with confusion, once he gets himself together again and brings his attention back to his immediate surroundings, Just Ronon, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his knees and the fingers of one hand pressed against the glass. His calm concern is startling enough that, as soon as his breathing allows it, John starts to laugh.

Ronon doesn't join in, instead glancing at the elevator like he wants something from it, before frowning in frustration that comes so readily that John's certain Ronon's serenity had been forced, and anyway, John's fine now. He can get it under control.

 _Stop it. You're freaking out the alien_.

He swallows the last of the laughter and takes a final deep breath.

 _Right_.

"You all right?" Finally, Ronon's dropped the concern, his face gone back to blank. It makes it a lot easier to look at him straight on.

"Yeah." Suddenly, this is beyond mortifying. But in light of everything else? _Yeah. Screw it._ He sits up, shakes his head to get the blood moving again. And he really should, at some point, fill Ronon in. "Sorry about that. I just. Anyway."

"Your tracker. I tried...They've de-prioritized the operation to remove it." It's hard to watch Ronon's disappointment kick up through his inscrutability, but John forces himself not to look away. Dejection figures heavily as Ronon drops his hand from the window to lie stunned in his lap.

"But. The wraith will come."

"They've been heading our way for a while, now, even before you showed up." _This isn't your fault, I promise_. "Your tracker's not what's bringing them. So. Ah. They rescinded the order to have the surgeon come in to remove it."

"What about Dr. Keller?" Ronon's shutting down again, but this time it's happening by degrees. There's absolutely no inflection to his words.

"She doesn't have the experience to pull it off. It's just too hard to get it out without paralyzing you." Christ, this sounds awful, but he's running low on silver linings. "If she tried, you'd just end up more trapped than you already are. I'm sorry. Really."

 _You've got to know that._

\---

John seems more concerned with about Ronon becoming paralyzed than he does about his entire world being devoured by the wraith. Ronon has to admit, it's seeming increasingly possible that he's overestimated their instincts for self preservation.

They hide the the truth from their own people, and seem completely unable to communicate within their ranks. Nobody seems capable of making decisions, of giving orders to actually _do_ anything. And now they've locked up the only person among their number whose words are worth the breath required to say them. It would be laughable, were it not so clearly leading towards their own destruction.

What's less comical is that they know that the wraith are coming. They have the _privilege_ of warning, of lead time, more than Sateda had ever had at their best. And while it's impossible to see, from down here, the full extent of their preparations, Ronon can't think of one good reason to allow a beacon to go out, pinpointing their location for when the hives inevitably begin to swarm.

The wraith might not be here for him, but he'll bring them relentlessly down on their heads, and this is what he can't understand. No world can possibly be this suicidal. The realization shouldn't blindside him, not after the weeks in prison, the wraith, everything, but it does.

"They're going to kill me, aren't they?"

" _What?_ " John evidently, hasn't thought this far ahead, and he's kneeling on the other side of the glass, ducking his head to look more closely at him. "What's going on in there?"

"They're not removing the tracker, they're not letting me go, so the only thing left they can do to protect themselves is destroy it." _Me_ , he thinks. _Get rid of me_.

"No," John shakes his head adamantly, his hand up on the glass for balance as he moves more completely to the floor. "No. They're just holding you here. Until they can figure something out. It's not like that, I swear-" His face slackens, though, as he realizes what Ronon's been hoping he wouldn't have to point out. John is Ronon's only voice, here, he's buried just as deeply. And from what he can tell, nobody had really listened to John, nor told him much of anything before his incarceration. John's as useless as Ronon is, down here.

"Fuck. Listen. Another few days, some people are coming in to oversee what's going on here." John's eyes dart to the camera in the corner. "I went over the IOA's heads, that's why I'm locked up down here, mostly." Instinctually leaning forward so that he can be heard, John voice drops into a near whisper. Were it not for the glass, Ronon would probably be able to feel his breath on his neck, and for a mad moment, he's wanting it so badly that he barely registers John's next words. "Anyway. Nobody's gonna kill you. I won't let that happen."

John's breath slightly fogs the glass, and Ronon sighs to make a matching cloud, rather than backing away to gain distance the way he thinks he probably should. "You're not in a position to do much," he reluctantly points out, but John merely shrugs.

"Story of my life. Doesn't mean it's not true." If Ronon had backed away, he would've missed it, the flash in John's eyes, the sudden small grin. "And actually... I think I might have an idea." John shakes his head suddenly, then stands. Apparently he needs to pace when he thinks, because he begins wandering his tiny cell.

Even prisoner like this, he's still trying.

Ronon stays on the floor, but watches him carefully, not wanting to miss the moment of epiphany when it comes. Trying not to hope is easier when there's the distraction of motion, of John's fingers gesturing minutely as he sorts through his thoughts.

John's completing his fifth circuit when Ronon's suddenly overcome with the need to thank him, regardless of what happens. He's on his seventh or eighth when Ronon, trying and failing to string words together in his head, realizes that every muscle in his body's gone so tense that he couldn't speak if he wanted to. His heart's beating so fiercely that he can feel it down in his stomach, and there's no room in his lungs for air, for anything else but-

John's on his tenth circuit, maybe, when Ronon falls silently, paralytically, in love with him.


	15. Chapter 15

"You do anything to hurt him, I'm not manning the chair when the wraith arrive."

John's had better ideas than this, and he's plenty of time- days now- to talk himself out of it, but the conversation hadn't quite turned that way. Maybe he'd known it wouldn't hold up if he said it out loud too soon. Maybe he'd worried at how hard he'd mean it once he did, and had superstitiously let the words build up inside him until now, accruing some imaginary power.

Imaginary being the operative word. Woolsey, Coolidge, Caldwell and General O'Neill stare back at him over the conference room table, none of them looking particularly impressed, but it doesn't change anything. McKay, down at the far end, won't even make eye contact.

He's been locked up for three days. There hadn't been much else to find down there by way of bargaining chips. Just long bouts of quiet in between conversations that went mostly nowhere.

\---

_He halts in the middle of his cell, suddenly. He has his answer, and it's startlingly simple._

_He's a nobody, sure, and it's melodramatic as hell, but it's also leverage. The IOA might be foolish, but they're not suicidal. They need him. Without him in the chair when the wraith come, they're leaving themselves, leaving the entire planet open._

_Ronon's on the floor of his cell, staring frozenly up at him, as if he's acutely aware that everything in the world depended on the next words out of John's mouth. As ego-stroking as it is- and it is, it really, truly is- as of right now, John hasn't disappointed him yet._

_He shakes his head. "Gotta see what happens, first." The staring's getting a bit hard to handle, so he sits down on his bunk. It's impossible to tell how much time really passes- it feels like an eternity- when Ronon coughs._

_"Thanks," he says. "Whatever it is." He seems oddly embarrassed._

_"Don't thank me until it works," John mutters, staring again at his feet._

\---

In the wake of his announcement, John's fighting the urge to stare at his feet again when Caldwell finally breaks the silence. "So, what. You'd put _him_ over the safety of the entire planet?"

"And there it is," Coolidge interrupts, rocking back in the chair as if John's handed him everything he could ever want on a silver platter. He swivels his head to share his triumph. "You were wondering, Woolsey, where Sheppard's allegiances really lie? I believe we have our answer."

"Who the hell ever said anything about hurting the alien, anyhow?" O'Neill interrupts Woolsey's sputtering reply with a skeptical glance.

"If I'm jumping to conclusions," John grinds out, "it's only because so far, he's been kidnapped, imprisoned, forced to fight a wraith to the death with his bare hands, and for all their talk about integrating him, they've done nothing to indicate that they're taking it seriously. Their one offer, to remove the tracking device stuck into his spine, they've withdrawn. And in case you haven't heard, it acts like a beacon. It'll draw the wraith _straight here_."

"Is that true?" Caldwell turns on McKay, fixing him with a serious, heavy look.

McKay frowns, shooting John an unreadable look as he pokes at his tablet. "They'll be able to find his exact location from _Mars_. And before you ask, no, that wasn't hyperbole." He turns the tablet around so they can see, and points at the screen. "You want to see the math?"

"I most adamantly do _not_ , O'Neill rolls his eyes, and despite everything, John's starting to like the guy. Caldwell, though, reaches for the tablet. "Look. _Everyone_. I've heard all this already. What I don't understand, however, is how the IOA's justifying keeping Sheppard incarcerated. For cryin' out loud, Coolidge, he's just trying to do what you _hired_ him to do."

"That decision was made independently by my colleague," he gestures to Woolsey without looking at him. "As I'm sure you've seen the reports regarding the recent internal restructuring of the-"

"Screw the restructuring," O'Neill interrupts. "We've got more important things to worry about than your bureaucratic posturing, or haven't you heard?"

"Might I point out that the military has no jurisdiction over-"

"Did the man not just say that _I don't care_? And if you want to talk jurisdiction, maybe you shouldn't be unlawfully detaining American citizens against their will."

"We are perfectly within our rights, as he has clearly allied himself with a-"

"Sheppard's not a complete jerk to the _other_ guy you're treating like crap. Is that what you're about to tell me? 'Cause as far as I can tell, that's all you've got on him. Oh, and the other guy? Dex? I actually _read_ his file. We dropped the ball with him, plain and simple. If he's our enemy, it's _probably_ because we've done everything humanly possible to turn him against us."

"You haven't even met the man."

"I'm doing one better, right now," O'Neill jerks his chin towards the doorway. "Carter and Teal'c are down with him right now. And yes, before you ask, their assessment _does_ carry more weight than yours. Once they're done, one of two things will happen. Either we'll be dialing Atlantis to remove a potential threat against global security, or we'll be asking him what _he_ wants to do. And the IOA, I'm certain, will be very keen to make up for how crappily he's been treated."

Coolidge sneers, red faced and angry. "Who's posturing now?"

"Look. I know the IOA has historically been, oh, what's the word... _terrible_ at the big picture, so I'll spell it out for you. _Again_. In a few days, we are going to be set upon by space vampires bent on wiping us from existence. In order for us to mount any sort of defense, we're going to need _allies_. Sheppard's our last line of defense, he's there to pick up whatever breaks through. He's literally the guy with the most powerful weapons we've got, so consider yourself lucky that he called me. Because he _could_ have gone to the chair room instead, and we'd all be having a much different conversation." O'Neill pauses for breath and consideration. "Mostly, I think, it involve a lot of screaming and crying." Caldwell rolls his eyes; he's not the only one, but John's finding it awfully hard not to laugh. It's made worse when O'Neill catches his eye, fighting a grin of his own.

"Now. Like I said, Sheppard's our backup, but he's not the only ally we need to consider. Does anyone besides Caldwell, here, even know how many ships we've got? Anyone?"

"Sixteen," Woolsey mutters quietly, cleaning his glasses. He's not having nearly as much fun as O'Neill, and from the waxen expression on his face, it's been like this for days.

"Wrong," O'Neill shakes his head. "We've got three, _maybe_ four. The Daedalus, Apollo, and the Odyssey. If we're _very_ lucky, the George Hammond will be ready for launch by the end of the week. You want to know who most those _other_ thirteen ships belong to? Yeah. The _Asgard_."

John's heard the term in the cafeteria, but doesn't understand. "Um. Who're the Asgard?"

"Our allies," Caldwell sighs, glancing up from McKay's tablet. "They've got some of the most advanced technology in the universe, which they don't like sharing. Or using. And they're... _picky_ , about how we go about things. You'll never win an ethics debate with any of them." Woolsey hums worriedly as his eyes widen, already realizing where this is going, but O'Neill merely nods.

"Exactly. They picked up our chatter about Dex over the past few days. Convincing them to help out was hard enough in the first place, and now they're pissed at us. Oddly enough, kidnapping and holding people against their will? Not the best way to make the Asgard's Christmas card list. They're _this_ close to pulling out."

Coolidge's face has gone slack. He's lost all his bluster, and he's trying to speak, but can't get the words out. John fills the opening. "Can't you talk to them?"

"Yes. But words won't mean anything if we can't convince them that we do right by our allies. All of them. Including Ronon Dex."

\---

John's head is spinning. Apart from O'Neill's glib order for Coolidge to apologize, and his own repeated assurances that he'd man the chair no matter what happens, he's been released without ceremony. At least for the duration of the recess, until they reconvene, with Ronon this time, to hash out the rest. O'Neill follows right on his heels as he heads down the hall, and when they stop at the elevator, regards him speculatively.

"So." He waves his hand vaguely at John. "All this..."

"Posturing," John nods, crossing his arms and wondering what the next crisis is going to be. "It's okay. You can say it."

"...was because of the guy downstairs?"

 _Yes_. "No. It was because of the guys in the conference room." He cuts himself off before he starts bitching again. He's already won, more or less. No sense whining.

"They've always been monumentally paranoid, mostly about the wrong things. Which means it's our job to work around them when with can't work with them, so." O'Neill shrugs. "You're doing fine."

"How I'm doing doesn't really enter into it," John points out, stepping into the elevator. "It's up to your people, now."

\---

Ronon finds himself drawn to the sigil on Teal'c's forehead- it's metal, branded _into_ the skin, and the symbol is unfamiliar, but Teal'c's bearing leaves little doubt. It's a military insignia, possibly indicating his rank. His eyes had landed only once, heavily, on Ronon's neck in mutual assessment. Habit. Instinct maybe.

Teal'c radiates an angry sort of calm. He's quiet, turning over every word he says and holding them until the moment they'll carry the most weight. But sometimes, when Carter is asking her questions- _could you tell me what happened on Sateda_ , or okay, since you arrived, what have you been told- there's a hint of amusement that shows through

Like the sigil, Ronon doesn't understand Teal'c's sense of humor, either.

Carter is more obviously tense, though she doesn't seem nervous, just agitated, maybe frustrated. She smiles often, sympathetically, and though she seems at first quick to trust, she's careful. She asks him question after question, but listens more than she speaks.

He probably would've wound up answering her even without John's insisting that he do so.

\---

_"We need this," John says, elbows on his knees, hands gesturing tiredly at nothing; sharp movements that don't fit with the quiet desperation in his voice. "I need you to do this. Just talk to them, the people that are coming are important, people will listen to them, it's not like. Me. They're our. Your. Best chance at getting out of here."_

_"Yeah. Okay." He wants to mean it for the right reasons, not entirely sure what they are any more. It's enough, though, if it'll wipe the defeated look in John's eyes._

\---

Carter's finally run out of questions to ask about his tracker, and she's rocking back to glace up at Teal'c and another silent communication passes between them, but Ronon doesn't think they realize they're doing it. Teal'c had said himself that they'd been working together for over a decade.

It's heartening, though, that there are people on this world who aren't as alone as John is.

"So. Your turn," Carter finally says, stretching her back before leaning again over her crossed legs. "Do you have any questions for us?"

It's troubling that he has to think before speaking. "So. What's it like?"

"What's what like?" Carter frowns in confusion, but the question's for Teal'c, anyhow.

"It's an interesting place," Teal'c posits after a moment. "It has withstood the advances of many enemies over the years, and the population is great. Because of this, there are more cultures here, more variety than I've seen on any dozen other worlds. It is also, perhaps for the same reason, more complicated, and not without troubles. But even so, it is a world worth experiencing."

"Experiencing," Ronon repeats, risks a pointed glare at the room around him, the bare, stark walls, the artificial light. "Right."

"Some parts, more than others."

Ronon's trying to find the words. It takes him a minute, which surprisingly, he's allowed. "Are people happy here? The ones who don't know?"

Carter frowns as she contemplates. "There's enough here for us to be happy, sad, angry, lonely or tired. All of it. And it doesn't change with the knowing." She gives Ronon a moment to process, but his mind's gone strangely blank. He can't think of anything more, but John's stepping off the elevator with another person Ronon hasn't met yet, and the moment's passed.

"You guys ready?"

"We are," Teal'c replies, helping Carter to her feet. John opens the cell, and Ronon watches them step out.

"You too," John says, eyes boring into him like he's looking for answers, and the smile is obviously more for Ronon's benefit than his own. "Time to face the music." It's another interesting choice of words, but he's learning to translate them.

\---

John's silent, but he hasn't left Ronon's side since they've arrived. Carter gives her report, lengthy and surprisingly organized, given her lack of preparation time, but when it's Teal'c's turn to speak, he says only one word in agreement.

"Indeed."

"Well, that's good enough for me," O'Neill nods, smirking at the IOA representatives gathered around the table. "And, in case anyone was wondering, good enough for the Asgard. So I guess all that's left is to ask Mr. Dex-"

"With permission, Sir," Caldwell says, "there is a matter that came up for discussion during the recess."

"Go ahead."

"We've got backup plans for our backup plans, but as you know, there's been one thing we haven't been able to work around. Mr. Dex's implant acts like a beacon."

"Yes. Because that problem hasn't been brought up eight _billion_ times today."

"You're misunderstanding me, General. It acts like a _beacon_. The wraith will be drawn right here. Where our defenses are greatest, which means that if he's here, the odds are good that the wraith will choose to target us instead of, say, Akron or Paris. We'll have more success fighting any who arrive if they're all heading right at us."

"Maybe," John finally interjects, not looking at Ronon. "But the deal was, if Ronon passed inspection, _he_ would get to final say where-"

Ronon's grabbing his arm before he can finish, before Ronon himself even knows why. He finds himself shaking his head, too, and it's startling, to have so many faces turning so expectantly towards him. Even though he'd been the basis of this entire conversation.

"It's a good strategy," is all he can manage at first. It's not as if he's been asked, or anything, but it doesn't change the facts.

And it's not as if they've offered or asked, or anything, but- and it's blindsiding, but- it's the first time this tracker's meant anything beyond _running_.

John snorts, shakes his head, but doesn't move to dislodge him when he glares up at him. "Keeping you locked up _isn't_ actually what we were going for, here, you know." He's right. Ronon wonders if the others can read him as well as John can, if they know that right now, he's wishing he'd kept silent.

"If they come," he begins, but it sounds ridiculous, given the preparations they seem to have already made, and his voice is too loud in the room. " _When_ they come, then. Let me out to fight."

"Ronon." John nudges his arm, his voice quiet though it's clear all can hear him. "You're saying that  
you'd _willingly_ remain confined, if-"

"While it seems you all have made up your minds," Coolidge spits petulantly, "the fact remains that despite Mr. Dex's purest intentions, given the opportunity, Mr. Dex may prove to be a flight risk."

O'Neill rolls his eyes. "Does anyone else see the irony in worrying about the flight risk posed by a man who's essentially _visible from space_?" He glances around the table, his expression brooking no argument. "No? Good. Now. What's the plan?"

\---

Ronon's given an ID badge that grants him fairly wide access to the facility, and is assigned a bunk in the facility's barracks, and though some of the military personnel seem uneasy with the arrangement, it's not until the next morning that John realizes, belatedly, that they're not the only ones.

"How'd you sleep?"

Ronon's more interested in contemplating his breakfast- waffles, on Teal'c's recommendation, than answering. Maybe it's just the light coming in from the windows- the cafeteria has the best lighting of the entire facility- but the shadows under his eyes seem even more pronounced. "Fine," he says, in between mouthfuls. "You?"

Though he's smiling, he's not so much interested in John's answer as he is in deflecting. He's putting up a good front, though glancing across the table at him before his eyes dart away again, tracking McKay's movement towards the coffee pot across the room. A second ago it had been Lorne and Parrish, sitting down a few tables over.

"Fine." John finds that he's not particularly up to discussing how his first night of freedom had gone, either. He'd returned to his stuffy apartment to find an impressive pile of bills and junk mail. There'd also been a card from Nancy that had been more apology than condolence. Even after all this time, she still apparently knew exactly what he needed to hear when he least wanted to hear it. He'd been heating up a can of soup when Mad Marlene had stopped by to ask if he'd seen her cat. Whether or not she'd even noticed he'd been gone was anybody's guess, but he hadn't been able to decide which was more depressing.

It was the air conditioner, however, that most ruined his night. Objectively, he'd known it hadn't been any more or less broken than it had been when he'd left, but the rasps and rattles ricocheted through his skull often enough that sleep was out of the question. By midnight he'd been so frustrated that he'd started considering heading back to the facility to check up on Ronon, just to get away from the noise.

 _Mostly_ to get away from the noise.

By one, the annoyance had set in. Ronon was fine. The barracks weren't the Hilton, but they were a far sight better than the lonely, small cell. His longer leash meant he could check out the grounds, if he wanted. Use the gym or watch television when he got bored. He could talk to people without having guns pointed in his face. And if John had lost sleep thinking about it, at least he'd been able to blame it on the air conditioner.

It's not until Ronon's sitting across from him eating waffles while cataloguing the comings and goings of every single person in the room that John suspects that maybe jealousy had been too optimistic a reaction. It's not until they're done eating, though, that he's sure of it.

"So. You're cleared for chaperoned excursions off the grounds," John says as he stands, neglecting to mention the second string of chaperones who will most likely be following Ronon's tracker from the security post, but it's unlikely Ronon senses that he's leaving anything out, given the way he redoubles his attention on his plate. "And hey, you might as well see first hand what it is you've volunteered to fight for, right?"

Ronon frowns, a little disbelieving. "You sure it's all right?"

"We're going to need to get you a change of clothes," John muses, mentally reviewing the guidelines Woolsey had emailed him. The list, thankfully, hadn't been all that long, and John suspects it has more to do with Teal'c and O'Neill's previous history than any actual analysis on the IOA's part.

_Civilian clothing. Blend in. Minimize direct contact with other civilians. All personnel are forbidden from carrying weapons off-base, and visitors are not allowed access to same unless circumstances dictate that engagement with enemy forces is necessary. All decisions regarding necessary engagement will be at the discretion of the supervisory security agents, as will all logistical and tactical decisions._

Turns out, they'd had a protocol in place for this eventuality- they'd had one _all this time_ , because aliens showing up for a tour of Earth isn't even a _novelty_.

Not that it's worth getting angry about now.

The wraith are going to be here in less than a week, and the fate of the world might literally prove to rest on their shoulders, but they've got three, maybe four days left before they've got to fight. And Las Vegas might not be where he'd want to spend his final days, might not even feel like reality any more, but it's what he's got.

But he's got Ronon, too, who's picking up his own tray and following him back to the counter, and who might be the only person here who _gets_ what it has to feel like, knowing that the world's about to end. Who's turned out to be the only person that John's even _thought_ of spending his very last days with.

It's not much, but it's what he's got, and it's starting to feel like it's more than he'd ever had.

 

_TBC..._


	16. Chapter 16

John's casting a critical eye over him, managing to frown and grin at the same time.

"You look good," he says.

Ronon shifts, trying to get used to the shirt that settles too lightly over his skin, leaving his arms bare. The jeans, he's decided, are better than the too-short fatigues- On loan from Teal'c, apparently- that he'd been given to try on first. Wearing borrowed clothes is nothing new- everything he has is stolen- but it's been a long time since how they _looked_ were of any importance.

Then again, John had never been there to grin in satisfaction at his appearance. The thin material of the shirt stretches against his back as he brings his shoulders back, drags against the bandages he'd somehow forgotten were there.

This isn't going to work.

"I still don't look anything like your people," he says, tugging at his hair. It's rough and corded as it ever was, nothing at all like the short styles worn by all of John's men, but if he cuts it off, his tracker will be visible to all. John seems to understand this, a frown furrowing his brow before he shakes his head.

"Nah, you'll fit in more than you think, soon as we get out of here. You look great." John's startled gaze shifts down to Ronon's shoulders and stays there, and Ronon finds himself wanting to show off, but he's not sure how it works, here.

\---

Ronon follows mutely as John leads him to meet the security retinue. They, too, are wearing clothes more similar to John's and his own than their usual uniforms. Though Ronon understands uniforms, and what they're for, it's surprising how easier it is to be around them when they're gone. Still, though, the overall effect is that the soldiers are, like him, going on an undercover operation into John's territory.

Ronon's been up to this level before, had peered down the hallway at the dim gray light shining through the glass doors. It's not until he's blinded upon their opening that Ronon realizes that the glass had been stained to keep out the sunlight.

There's so _much_ of it. So little of anything else that it's startling.

There are billions of people on this planet, and so much space. No trees, no cover, and he knows he's supposed to be treating it all like he's seen it before, but there's nobody but John and the guards to watch as he turns, squinting, on the concrete, trying to take it all in.

The air's too hot to breathe, this world is dead, the wraith have already come, culled and burned everything to the ground. Nothing's left, not even ashes, just this scarred, lifeless landscape but John's in front of him, suddenly, his hand gripping Ronon's arm.

"Hey." Tugging until they're both turned around, John points across the desert. "Shit. Sorry. Look. We're heading that way." Just over the horizon, the glint of glass and metal can be seen through the haze. It's insubstantial and crystalline, likely to disappear the moment Ronon blinks, but John doesn't seem worried.

He finds himself nodding, moves his eyes only reluctantly.

"Let's get out of here, yeah? There's AC in the truck."

Ronon's not sure what AC is, but John's people tend to give the shortest names to the most important things, and it's probably something they need. The heat inside the truck is stultifying, when John opens the door before walking around the front, waving at the guards getting into a truck of their own, and he, too, pauses to let the heat rush out before climbing inside.

"Take this," John tugs a strap from behind his left shoulder; there's a matching one behind Ronon's right, and he follows John's movement, drawing it down and across his lap. "It's just a precaution," John explains, the tips of his fingers brushing his own hip. "Plug it in here."

It's not until they're pulling out that the strap tightens slightly against his chest, and it if weren't for the fact that John seems unaffected, it would be a problem. As it is, though, the memory of too many wraith pods is faint, barely alarming. It's too bright, here, for the threat to feel real, though he knows it's just an illusion, that darkness can provide even more safety than sunlight.

"So yeah. Sorry about that. Didn't mean to spring this all on you after you've been cooped up for so long."

"It's okay." There's a mirror sticking out of the side of the truck. If Ronon leans right, puts his shoulder against the door, he can see the guards following them, and while they're keeping up, they're making no effort to gain on them. They're just following. Not hunting. "Where are we going?"

John shrugs. "I don't really know. Got some time to figure it out before we get there, but I promise it'll be more fun than hanging out at the base. If we had more time, I'd drag you out to Colorado, maybe, or California, but." He shrugs, and when he speaks again, it's quieter, almost apprehensive "There's really not much we can do in the meantime, but. Well. I figured. Make the best of it. Give you a chance to spread your legs a bit, you know?"

"Thanks."

They're moving fast enough that there's no time to catalog the features of the areas they're passing- not that many exist, beyond the obvious mountains and hills that too far away to be of any practical use. It's hard, though to stop the impulse to look for cover in the scraggly plants dotting the landscape. John points out cacti as if Ronon's never seen them on a hundred different worlds.

Eventually, Ronon's satisfied that the scenery isn't likely to change in the next ten seconds, and stops fighting the urge to ask.

"You've got two billion people here, right? Where _is_ everybody?"

John just laughs.

\---

John's thankful for the Vegas skyline, which they've been able to see for miles, now. Because it gives Ronon the chance to acclimate to the idea of cities, of the nearly two million people sprawled out ahead of them. And to be honest, John's not certain Ronon's the only one who needs to acclimate.

The last time he drove back home, he was heading to the airport. He doesn't even honestly know if his apartment building's still standing. For all he knows, Dwayne down on first could've fallen asleep with a burning cigarette again. But John likes to believe he would've heard. From somebody.

If anyone had noticed he was actually missing.

Still. Vegas is home.

\---

"...and that's the Natural History Museum," John points out as they pass, having no idea if Ronon's listening, but a running narration seems warranted under the circumstances. "It's not much, but I've seen worse. Children's museum's just up ahead."

Even though he's turning his head, trying to take it all in, Ronon's frozen from the neck down, with a white knuckled grip on the seatbelt. Traffic's gotten heavier, rush hour just starting to set in, and every time they come to a stop light Ronon stares at the other drivers.

He looks, in a word, _miserable_ , and it's clear enough that actually getting him out of the truck is going to be an undertaking. It's as good a reason as any to take the long way home from here, pulling east off the Boulevard to head in the general direction of his apartment. It's not the most glamorous tourist destination he's seen, but it's where the jeans he hasn't been wearing for days on end are stored.

He doesn't even care if they're clean anymore.

Ronon watches the residential streets with the same focus as the main drag, but there's nothing to see here. In a bit, once he's had a chance to change, they'll head out again, south towards the strip- though maybe one of the parks would be easier on him. It's no big deal to turn around again and hit Heritage from here, maybe wander around the jogging path for a bit.

Pulling onto North 11th, he finds his building still standing. Dwayne's Winnebago, too, is still in it's usual spot, where it's likely to remain, undriven, until the rust finally sets in, or at least until his daughter, Sally, gets old enough to take it for a joyride. Knowing the climate, it could take centuries. And though the same can't really be said for the building itself, with the stucco flaking off its sagging walls, Ronon doesn't comment.

"This is my place," John says, pulling into the open parking spot and setting the truck in park. "I just wanted to stop in for a minute, get a change of clothes." Ronon nods, staring at the building's narrow windows, but makes no other attempt to move. John's about to invite him in a little more directly when Cadman and the others pull in behind him. At the same moment, his phone rings.

"What the hell are we doing here?"

"I'm getting changed. Then we're going to hit the park for a while."

"Seriously? His first time in Vegas and you're gonna, what, show him some scrub brush and gravel?"  
"We're playing it by ear," John decides that discretion is the better part of valor. "If that's okay with you."

"Sure." Behind him, a car door slams, and Cadman's striding towards his truck. He opens the door to meet her head on, shutting his phone off as he stands. "Look, John," she says sweetly. "I don't want to butt in or whatever, and I know you've had a shitty time of it, but this is the closest we've come in having leave time in weeks. So. I'd like to propose a deal."

"What's that?"

"We're due back before breakfast tomorrow. Well, you can come in whenever, but Ronon's got to come back with us. Markham drew the short straw, so he's the designated driver tonight."

"So I'm going to have a drunk security detail?"

"Are you actually going to need it?" John glances through the window at Ronon, who still hasn't moved, and answers Cadman's question without a word.

"See? Everyone wins. We get a night off, you guys get a night off, and nobody has to be the wiser." She's got a great smile, John realizes. Especially when she knows she's already getting her way.

"What time do you want to meet up?"

"Play it safe, we'll call it midnight. Meet up downtown. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Good." Another smile, and she's heading back towards the truck. Over her shoulder, she calls. "But you _call_ us the second anything goes wrong. Better yet? Don't let anything _go_ wrong."

\---

 _You're going to kill them all_.

 _They're already dead_. It's not true. The wraith will come- they'll _always_ come, but they'll be stopped. His tracker isn't what's bringing them here.

Shaking himself at John's signal, he scans one last time for threats he knows aren't actually there. The heat slams into him as he gets out of the truck. John takes a few backwards steps, waiting for him to catch up, but once he's following, John rounds the corner without checking first.

It's the fastest he's moved in days, but when he reaches the same corner, all he finds is John.

 _No_. What he finds is so much worse.

"Hey Sally," John's stopped in his tracks in front of a young girl who's drawing on the concrete with fat pieces of colored chalk.

Sally's skinny, with messy braids. Sally _exists_.

The last time Ronon had seen a child, it had probably been a boy. He hadn't gotten close enough to the bloated body to check, and wouldn't have bothered even if he'd had the time. And now this girl is turning huge brown eyes on him and smiling guilelessly, like she doesn't _know_ , and too many sensations are crashing over him, horrible and confusing. It must be obvious, too, given John's expression when he glances up from what he's saying, and he's grabbing Ronon by the arm.

"Come on. Crap." Ronon lets himself be pulled away, barely able to hear John's "We'll see you later, Sally," over the screeching in his head.

"Fuck. Okay. What's going on, huh?" John's words are washing over him as they head up the stairs. One foot at a time. The sight lines here are horrible, anything could be waiting on the landing, but it's not his own thoughts he needs to be listening to, it's John's. "This is my place, okay? We're gonna head inside, sit down. Get me some fresh clothes, let you chill a minute." John's fiddling with the door and after a moment's cursing, gets it open. "You thirsty? We'll get you sorted, okay? Come on."

It's dark in here, even with the sun blazing through the closed curtains, and some part of his mind is adjusting to the decrease in light. Outside, in the sun, in full view of the sky, Sally is drawing on the sidewalk, no fear, just-

"Have a seat. I'll be right back." He's directed towards a couch, sits heavily on it. The tan upholstery is textured, raised vines and flowers underneath his fingertips, though it's worn flat, even worn through, in places, and he sinks further back into the cushion than he'd been expecting to, but it's okay. He's got his back against something. From here, he can watch the sun filter through the blinds to highlight the dust in the air. He can stare at the shaggy brown carpet, and wonder where on this huge world it came from. He can think.

From here, the drone of the highway doesn't _actually_ sound like wraith darts cruising in for the kill. This world's never even heard that sound. Yet. And Sally could be playing outside when it happens, glancing in mild confusion at the noises overhead.

"What's going on in your head, huh?"

 _Dead children. Bloated in a ditch, too small and weak to make a wraith's meal._

Ronon blinks, shakes his head up to find John's shape standing in front him. It's not until the cool slickness taps against his knuckles that Ronon even realizes he's trying to hand him a glass of water. The glass feels too solid to shatter easily, but the water splashes over the rim, and the cold droplets soak fast through his jeans.

"Hey," John's touching his shoulder, steadying himself as he sits down on the couch next to him. It's not until John squeezes that he's able to guess why. John's trying to steady _him_. The tremors aren't just in Ronon's hand; it's his arm, his shoulders, his chest, too, Realization doesn't make it any easier to stop, even when John eases the cup out of Ronon's hand, sets it on the table.

"It's cool, okay? Whatever it is, you're fine. Look at me. Ronon. _Hey._ What's-"

"Too much," Ronon shrugs, fairly certain that there's more to it and equally sure that he can't describe it. John's fingers squeeze again, his thumb pressing into the joint of his shoulder. He finds himself turning into the touch without thinking. If he'd planned it, maybe he'd know what to do now that he's face to face with John. He doesn't know how to fix John's worried expression, but maybe punching him would erase the guilt that's there in equal measure.

His predisposition to lash out at what must be kindness makes it hard to maintain eye contact. He doesn't deserve this. John has no idea what's running through Ronon's head though, because he's lightly stroking across Ronon's back, avoiding the implant completely.

He doesn't know how to apologize for his thoughts.

John's the first person he's hugged in over ten years, and his bones shift uneasily under Ronon's hands, but they don't break.

\---

"My bad," John's speaking into Ronon's hair and wondering how muffled the sound must be. Anyone else would've pulled away already. John's pretty sure he should've done so already, but maybe it's a cultural thing. He's surprisingly content to wait it out with Ronon's arms wrapped tight over his shoulders, trapping his hand against Ronon's chest. It's warm, and might be the most solid thing in here.

He's done this before. Made people feel better. Scared children who'd seen their parents die, Nancy before it had all gone bad. Dave too, maybe, when they'd been little, but he can't honestly remember. He needs to keep talking, though, provide a distraction, or throw out a line to grab onto. "Guess I wasn't really thinking. Haven't done this before, you know?" Ronon might be nodding; it's hard to tell, this close up, what the movement means. "I remember this one time, back when I was still in the service. Got stuck in a POW camp. They moved us around a lot at first, then kept us in the basement of a warehouse for three weeks that felt like forever." He doesn't know if he needs to explain what a POW camp is, but Ronon's not asking. "When we got out, it was cloudy outside, but it felt so bright I kept squinting for days, afterwards. Nothing looked right. But they'd only been holding us five miles from our base. It was surreal."

And hell. Empty desert roads and rush hour traffic? Ronon doesn't even have half the frame of reference he'd had. He's trying to figure out how to explain it when Ronon nods again, pulls back to look at him. The weight of his regard is heavy enough that John wants to pull close again, just to avoid it. John drops his gaze first, glances over at the water he'd left on the coffee table, sitting on the stack of magazines that he can't remember subscribing to. He's suddenly very glad, though, that he had.

\---

"It's called _National Geographic_ ," John eventually mutters as he picks up a magazine from the stack on the table, and it's easier to listen to him now that the sun's moved and the room's thrown into shadow. "I don't even remember subscribing, but they just keep showing up." Ronon doesn't comment, just studies the pictures as John turns the page, then turns it again.

There are mountains and cliffs and people with long necks banded in silver. Bright clothes that don't look anything like John's or Ronon's or anyone else's in the universe. There are older women sitting in a tavern, in a place called San Francisco, and a page later there are men kissing in the middle of the street while a parade carries on around them. There there are floods and storms and small bright lizards with huge red eyes. There are sharks that have been hunting the waters since before the humans existed, their mouths full of teeth and their eyes empty. There are huge gray brambled things that are actually too small to see, John explains, without magnification, and apparently some of them are even more deadly. There are wars and weddings. Soldiers and civilians and wide open skies filled with nothing but clouds. In a place called Japan, there are great metal structures rising out of the water, like the mining rigs on Sateda, filled with lights and structures that John says he doesn't understand, either.

There are people with marked skin and wrapped hair, sitting on a beach with long oval planks sticking out of the sand, and they look a bit like Ronon, despite their boards and the smiles.

They've gone through three magazines now, and twice now, he's stopped to ask where the pictures came from. The answer's the same both times- Earth- and John laughs, bright and sudden, when Ronon asks him if he's seen it all.

There are billions of people on the planet, and Ronon thinks he's starting to get what that means. There's enough here, on this world, that despite the photos from the satellites orbiting the planet, it's not so surprising that they haven't spent more time spreading out into the universe. They don't need any other worlds. There's enough that's still alien on their own.

\---

"Think that's the last of 'em," John eventually admits, flipping the last one shut and tossing it onto the coffee table. Maybe going through and looking at the pictures of all the things Earth stands to lose hadn't been the best idea. As if in agreement, magazine's landing on the pile causes a small avalanche, diverted at the last moment by Ronon's quick hands.

Ronon, at least, seems to have recovered, his posture loose and sprawling in a way that John hasn't seen before.

He's laughed half a dozen times, and extracted a promise from John that if they survive the next week, John will take him to Tokyo. How John'll manage getting the paperwork in order, he's got no clue, but Ronon's good humor had been infectious enough that he'd found himself wanting to make all sorts of promises to him, just to keep it going.

They've been sitting here for over an hour, and Ronon hasn't even seen the entire apartment, which wasn't even what this was supposed to be about. John's about to apologize when he catches himself at the last moment. Instead, he sits up, then stands, immediately regretting it. He hadn't even noticed how comfortable it had been, lazing on the couch with Ronon's arm pressed against his own.

"We've got about seven hours until we're due to meet up with our, ah... chaperones." Maybe he doesn't get the cue, maybe it's some cultural thing, but Ronon hasn't moved yet. He doesn't immediately answer, either, so John waits a moment, stretching out his back and shoulders. When he looks back at the couch, though, Ronon's still basking in the square of sunlight that John's only now taking notice of. He's got gold flecks in his eyes, and the lights of the Strip can be seen from space, but they're nothing in comparison to this. "You feel up to seeing the sights? I mean, it's not Odaiba, but..."

Ronon unfolds himself from the couch, and though they'd been sitting shoulder to shoulder for hours, this is a different kind of close.

John should step away. Doesn't, for a moment, because maybe it's another one of those intercultural things. Ronon might not know that they're standing too close, but concepts of personal space seem too complicated to get into right now. Besides. John's not certain, but it feels like he's getting away with something.

"Sounds good." Once expectant glance out the window and Ronon's nodding, finally, arms crossing easily in front of him. His elbow nearly hits John in the chest, but he doesn't step back, either. And maybe he's got a better understanding of personal space than John's given him credit for, because he doesn't seem to have any intention of moving. John has to look up to see his face, from here, and he should really be stepping back, now.

They should really be going.

"Thanks," Ronon says, the smile still playing on his lips. "For this."

"Don't mention it." _Stop staring at his mouth_.

The smile's pulled slightly wider to the side, his eyes intent, speculative. It's not quite a laugh, and after a moment, John's let in on the joke.

"I don't mention a lot of things," Ronon says, and hell. Recognition's a bitch. John's not getting away with anything at all.

His feet seem unwilling to cede the challenge his instinct's telling him Ronon's suddenly represented, but he hates how tinny his voice sounds. "Yeah." Another near-death rattle from the air conditioner punctuates the statement. "I kind of noticed that."

Ronon doesn't reach out to him; his arms are still folded loosely over his chest. He merely leans forward and down until his face is all he can see, and John knows this, knows which picture of Pride Week they're reenacting. Two older men, one in a polo shirt, the other in bright tie-dye, standing still on Market Street and kissing chastely while the chaos surges around them.

There's no chaos here, though, just lips pressing quietly against lips, and the sensation of being off balance. He steadies himself on Ronon's arms, and that, it seems, is the permission he's been waiting for- to unfold his arms and pull John closer.


	17. Chapter 17

This, John thinks, is exactly the sort of thing he's probably not supposed to be doing. He has, however, made something resembling a career of doing things he shouldn't, and it's lasted longer than his stint as a pilot, or husband, or detective.

He doesn't want to be the one to mention it, though, as they stumble across the living room, though. There'll be time for that later, and honestly? This isn't even coming close to feeling like a mistake.

Ronon kisses like he's trying to press himself through John's skin, a little fast, quite overwhelming. It gives John the excuse to let go, a bit, to lose himself a bit, all worries about _later_ finally drowning in the surge.

God, it's been ages since he's done anything like this. He doesn't realize he's said it out loud until Ronon laughs against his ear.

"Know the feeling," he says, letting John pull him in by his belt, until their bodies are aligned, until Ronon's crowding him against the wall. Ronon eases back, for a moment, his eyes roaming John's face, almost too attentive, and as much as John wants to distract him, he does what he can to return the regard.

"This okay?" John tries, his voice feeling hoarse. It occurs to him, belatedly, that there's a lot of room for cultural misunderstanding, here, so he tugs again on Ronon's belt, the gesture more intent than it had been a few minutes ago.

"Yeah."

John moves his hand lower, ghosting over the pocket of his jeans, fingers tracing the folds of the denim down to Ronon's thigh, then inwards. He can feel the heat of him through the fabric, and the hardness underneath makes him giddy, but not half as mad as he feels when Ronon suddenly decides to mirror his actions, then shifts his thigh between John's knees.

John kisses him, hard, to stifle the moan that wants to escape, his hands awkwardly trying to gain some purchase between them. Ronon's fingers hook over the waistband of his jeans, the knuckles brushing low against his stomach, and it's the cue he hasn't known he's been waiting for. Latching onto the fly of Ronon's jeans, his fingers get caught up in the hem of his shirt, and he forgets about it entirely as Ronon succeeds where he's failed. There's no room to thrust against him, but there's no need. He's trapped, here, against the wall, gasping into Ronon's mouth.

He's going to crash too soon. Manages to work his hand free, manages, barely, to wrestle Ronon's jeans open and down, just enough to run his palm from Ronon's ass around to the hardness that he's only felt, so far, in his periphery.

He sucks in some of the air Ronon's stolen as the ministrations on his own cock stutter. A few minutes of mad writhing, and they ease into something resembling a rhythm. Ronon's mouth goes lax against his temple, after a moment; John's teeth rake against Ronon's shoulder, nudging aimlessly past the fabric of his shirt.

Slight stumbling, clothes shifted out of the way just a little bit more, and the side of his arm is trapped against the sun-warmed glass of the window, and Ronon's pulse is pounding out against his cheek. He wonders what they look like, arms splayed around and between each other, their bodies grinding together. Possibly ridiculous. He's almost certain nobody outside can see them, flashes of their skin through the soon to be ruined blinds, but it's the _almost_ that's spurring the lust in him, now. That's making his grip that much tighter.

He wants to lay Ronon out in the sun, imagines the heat radiating back up from the sand, the sweat evaporating fast from their skin. Wants to feel his dreadlocks brushing his bare skin, his weight crushing him into the mattress of a darkened room, until all that's left is the sensation of him.

But not right fucking now.

Right now, he needs to know what Ronon feels like coming apart in his hands.

\---

Afterwards, when they're propping each other up, more out of exhaustion than any deliberate intent, Ronon feels his head swimming. Every pound of his heart creates a brief contact with John's heaving chest, and John kisses him back, lazily. Squints up at him, his eyes as soft and lax as the rest of him, and anything Ronon could say next will most likely change that expression into something less open.

Kissing John, like this, is languid and fluid, easy in a way that the rest of the world isn't.

John huffs in amusement, rocking his head to the side before pushing himself away from the window. The blinds have left a striped pattern in the skin of his arm, and the satisfaction the sight brings is startling.

Not as startling, though, as John's sudden laugh.

"We need fresh shirts," he says, toying with the jeans that are tangled around Ronon's thighs. "And. Well. You up for a shower?"

His content is contagious, apparently, because Ronon's letting himself be led down the hallway- awkwardly, at first, until it becomes more practical to shuck their jeans, leave them on the floor. Their shirts, redundant by now, follow immediately.

They'll be back for their clothes in a few minutes, Ronon knows, but he memorizes the sight of them. Right now, at least for a little while, there's evidence that this happened. That they were there. The part of his mind that's always tracking these things, mindful of each and every possible threat, finds none at all.

\---

Las Vegas is stunning, almost literally, once they get down to the strip. There's still enough heat caught in the pavement that it's radiating back up at them. His hair is still damp against his back, but it's drying quickly. Garish, bright lights scream out from every corner of his vision, flashing so wildly that the street seems to undulate beneath their feet. The noise, likewise, is alive. Cars and people and strains of music pouring out into the streets whenever a nearby door opens.

After the first few blocks, and stopping for food- too salty, , he's finding himself enjoying it, more than he probably should. But what's most amazing are the fountains.

They're purely decorative, garishly hedonistic. That people who lived in a desert would be so cavalier with their resources is astounding, but it's hypnotic, watching the jets of water catch the lights as it moves with the music.

"That's insane," he finally decides, unsure if his voice can be heard over the roar of the water as another series of jets opens up in front of them to create a towering wall.

"That's what Vegas is all about," John replies with a shrug; after a moment he begins haltingly to step back. "Come on. There's a place near here, they do the best steaks in town."

Ronon turns away from the display to find dozens of people still watching, entranced.

Maybe he can see the appeal.

\---

The food is good, and it's clear that John's hoping he'll be impressed, so Ronon doesn't point out that _all_ food is good food, or that, having eaten in the past few days, he's nowhere _near_ starving enough to really take notice. It doesn't stop him from clearing his plate before John's half finished.

Ronon can't remember the last time he had ale. It's thinner, here, than he remembers it being, but strong. The thin hint of drunkenness settles over him; his limbs feel loose and heavy. This far back into the booth they're in, it's actually possible to believe that they're alone, but for the constant stream of traffic outside the windows. It's hard to tear his eyes away, but John seems equally content to watch the people walking by.

It's a strange place to feel so quietly sated, here, in a city this big, this loud and bright and alive,

John's leg bumps his under the table, and suddenly it's not so strange at all.

\---

Back on the street, they wander past dozens of gambling rooms, eventually ducking into one to look around. The noise and lights are too confined, shooting out form all angles with no place to go, until the casino seems more confining than his cell had been.

It's nearly a relief to be heading for the door, past machines called one-armed-bandits and all their racket. As they step aside to let another throng of people swarm past, John's phone chimes. Looking at the display, he frowns.

"Cadman's three blocks away. We should probably get going."

There's a peal of electronic noise that sounds like an alarm going off, but John doesn't react, so Ronon doesn't need to. But it's too loud to talk. John tries anyway

"I don't know what I can promise," he says, as they step out of the casino and onto the street again, his voice so much quieter than the city that's opening up to again swallow them.

"That's okay," Ronon replies, feeling slight guilt at the relief John's words bring. He doesn't need promises, and honestly, he's not entirely sure what this is, between them. He doesn't know if it's love- it's been so long, he can't even identify it properly. "In a few days, it might not even matter." John's starting to look lost again, so he nudges him with his arm, smiles, and that seems to be the right thing to do, because John's allowing a small, speculative grin to cross his face as they stop in the garishly lit entryway of another casino.

"If we do make it through, though... I wouldn't mind revisiting it." Thousands of small lights are dancing across the ceiling and down the walls like water. John's nearly too bright to look at.

"Same here."

In a few minutes, he's going to be climbing into the truck with the guards, heading back through the night to the facility and whatever else is coming his way, and it's no good, leaving it like this.

He tugs at John's shoulder, while they're waiting for the light over the street to tell them when they're allowed to cross, and John's grin looks a little sad, now. He winds his arms around Ronon, though, and when they kiss, it doesn't feel like goodbye.


	18. Chapter 18

The sun's shining, and John knows it's one of those things that's supposed to be symbolic- new day, fresh start- but the truth of the matter is that driving northeast towards the facility this early in the morning, the glare is searing into straight into his probably bloodshot eyes. 

He wants to close them, catch up on the sleep he'd missed out on standing in his living room window, all night, staring at the lights of the suburbs stretching out. He'd just intended on having one drink, something to shake loose the last of the giddy excitement, something to ease him into sleep. 

Then one became two, and eventually three AM had made it's way 'round, and he was still standing there, his feet planted right where Ronon's had been. It didn't feel anywhere near as warm as it had that afternoon. Of course it wouldn't. The sun had set hours before. 

And it had come up early, kicking and screaming, searing itself into John's head with the same conclusion he'd arrived at last night Yesterday had been a fluke. Had to have been. Getting a day off, Ronon- _Ronon_ \- it had been too suddenly perfect. Too damned close to what he'd wanted, and life hasn't been in the habit of giving him what he wants without fucking him over severely in return. 

One perfect day, and there weren't likely to be many more of those, perfect or otherwise. Three days, give or take the end of the world. 

One perfect day, though. He'd had one perfect day, then passed out on the floor, fairly certain he'd been cheated. 

 

\--- 

He searches the hallways as he heads down to the chair room, but catches no sight of Ronon. McKay and Zelenka are already waiting for him, ushering him inside on a wave of chatter that he's probably supposed to be tracking. 

It occurs to him, the third time he nearly destroys the wrong simulated ship hovering in the space over his head, that maybe he's handling this badly.

Zelenka shoves him towards the door, suggests that maybe he should get some coffee before coming back in half an hour. He's so damned kind about it that the impulse to snipe at him is hard to ignore. He's saved the effort, though, by McKay's sudden ranting from the back monitors. John doesn't have to be the asshole, here. 

Ronon's waiting for him in the hallway, hands in his pockets, his shoulders leaning against the wall. His eyes are the only part of him that's smiling, but he falls into step with him without a word. 

His hand on John's shoulder, brief and quick, speaks volumes. 

\--- 

"You doin' alright?" 

Ronon keeps his voice low, wondering if he's speaking of this too soon, but they've got the corridor to themselves for the moment, and no way of knowing how long it'll last. It's impossible to do anything quietly, here. Cameras are everywhere, not just in his cell, and the entire building is made of glass, concrete, and tile that echoes the slightest sounds. 

John frowns inwardly as he decides whether or not to answer. When he does, it's just barely. "Rough night. Not enough sleep. Too many drinks, too many thoughts."

Ronon glances up ahead before focusing on him again, suddenly aware that there's probably a proper reaction he's supposed to be having, but John's providing no cues. "Bad ones?"

"Some of 'em," John sighs, finally smiles tiredly. "Not all of 'em." _Don't worry_ , his eyes say, and all it takes is Ronon's answering nod for John's face to become animated again. "How about you? You sleep all right?" 

There are voices coming from the other side of the door at the end of the hall, they're nearing the cafeteria, now. He's got to get this out. "Okay." He waits for John's eyes to search him out. Deliberate grins are getting easier. "I liked the day better."

John leans into him, just a little, before leaning across to open the door, one quick happy glance and, yeah. 

Maybe he's starting to get the hang of this. 

John seems startled by the number of people milling around the cafeteria, or maybe it's the noise, but Ronon's been half-expecting this since arriving back at the facility last night.

He'd been so caught up in John that he hadn't realized what it was to be climbing into the back seat of a truck with his former jailers. Even if he'd had expectations, however, they would've been wrong. He'd been waved into the front seat by Cadman, since the other soldiers were drowsing, close to sleep, in back. 

"It's a long way back to the base, and I need to stay awake. Talk to me," she'd said, pulling out into traffic, but he'd run through his edited timeline of events before they'd even reached the edge of town. She'd had to carry the weight of conversation mostly on her own. 

She'd done so with admirable skill and energy. They'd gone drinking at three different bars. Markham had won about a hundred dollars playing slots, while Stackhouse had lost triple that playing a game called blackjack. And it was just as well, she'd explained, seeing as how the world was probably coming to an end. She'd asked him questions- if he knew what his orders were going to be, and what had it been like sleeping in the barracks as opposed to his cell. It was right about then that she'd apologized, too.

"Just so you know. We were all following orders. It was never anything personal."

Ronon had nodded, watching the reflective white and yellow lines stretching out on the road ahead of them. They were hypnotic, so much so that when she said his name, he'd had to wonder how many of her words he'd missed. 

"Ronon, seriously. If anyone starts giving you a hard time tonight, you let Stackhouse know. I'd tell you to come to me, because Stackhouse is a cranky drunk, but I'm staying in a different part of the base than the guys."

There'd been no need, however. When eventually they'd arrived, Markham and Stackhouse stumbling on their feet, he'd been thinking that it was late enough that the facility would be silent. And in certain circumstances, he might've been right. The scene had been surprisingly familiar, when he finally headed into the barracks, soldiers spending their last few hours before a major battle drinking, talking, arguing, playing cards like the ones he'd seen in the casino. Several of the faces had been unfamiliar; apparently they'd reported in for duty and were only here for the night before getting transported out to their stations and ships. That, as much as anything, would probably have been reason enough for the gathering. 

Though there had been a few wary stares coming his way from one corner of the room, he'd found himself being dragged into conversation with four soldiers who he hadn't recognized, who'd arrived that afternoon, apparently in preparation for tomorrow's deployment. 

They'd been curious, and had asked him question after question, fast enough that his one-word answers were all that had really been required, and they'd kept passing him the bottle they all were sharing. After the first taste of whiskey burning his throat, it had proved easier to pretend to drink, rather than actually drinking, before passing it along. Still, though, it had taken him a surprisingly long time to find the opportunity to escape back to his own bunk. It was quite late before he managed to bury his face in the pillow and tried to tune out the dwindling noise, to find some approximation of silence, enough distance to think. 

He'd wanted to think about John, wanted the thought of him to lull himself into sleep, but every time he'd come close, the sound of some soldier stumbling into a nearby bunk, or a peal of manic laughter from the gathering at the far side of the room, would bring him back. 

These people had been his captors. They were trying to be his friends, now. 

And some of them would be dead, very soon. For some reason, the knowledge hurt. 

\---

"What the hell's going on?" John talks out of the side of his mouth as they get into line for coffee. Ronon grabs a mug from the bin as well, though coffee's definitely a taste that he's yet to acquire. The energy in the room isn't too different than it had been last night, though it is much more subdued. Everyone's on duty. Everyone has a commanding officer that might wander in at any moment. 

"Teams are getting deployed today," Ronon feels conspicuous, explaining it, but John had probably been locked in the room with that chair since he'd arrived. "Some are heading out to Cheyenne Mountain," he nods in the direction of Carter, Mitchell, and Teal'c, who are heading out the door across the way. "There were more here, earlier, but they started beaming some of them up to one of the ships. Most of the others are heading out in a few hours, when the other ship gets within range." _Geosynchronous orbit_ , he doesn't add, because John probably knows that much at least. 

He'd watched the first batch go, first thing thins morning, before John or any of the others who weren't staying on base arrived for the day; they'd glimmered before disappearing. He'd carefully _not_ watched Colonels Mitchell and Lorne saying goodbye in the hallway, pulling apart from each other suddenly, startled by his footsteps coming around the corner. Somehow, even with the echoing walls and floors, he'd managed to learn how to move quietly. The minor satisfaction had only lasted until the first batch had gone, and he'd caught a look at Mitchell's face, still staring at the empty spot in the room where Lorne had been standing moments before. His worried, lost expression had been too raw to examine closely, but Ronon hadn't needed to. 

"Huh," John says, and passes him the coffee pot, oblivious to all of this. "What about you? You know what you're supposed to be doing?"

Ronon shakes his thoughts loose with a shrug. "Woolsey was here, this morning," he glances around to see if maybe he's returned, but there's no sign of him. Probably still sitting in his office, talking on the phone. "McKay suggested that I go out with a team, when the time comes. This place is too important as a communications hub, so we're going out into the desert somewhere." John's knuckles going white on the handle of his mug; maybe he's simply trying to keep it from spilling as they make their way to the nearby table. 

"All that," John shakes his head, face slackening in disbelief. "After all the _we'd better keep you locked up_ , they're sending you away?"

"Tactical decision," Ronon reminds him, because though John might've been a soldier, once- he'd mentioned a little of it, here and there, and shown him pictures of helicopters like the ones he'd flown- it seemed like he'd deliberately left that part of himself behind. "Damage mitigation. Something goes wrong here, we're out of luck. Something goes down a safe distance away, we might pull through."

"That's not the point, it's not safe-"

"I'll have a team with me," Ronon hazards a sip of his coffee, finds it no better than he'd expected it would be. He doesn't want to talk about this any more. "Besides. You're backup, and I'm _your_ backup. These people here," he gestures at the soldiers and airmen crowding the cafeteria, getting ready for the next exodus. Mitchell is conspicuously absent. "They're the ones doing the heavy lifting."

"Still," John's about to press the issue, and it's easier to agree with him before he starts. 

"Yeah." Ronon nods. The coffee's still awful. "I know."

\---

He doesn't see much of John for the rest of the day, since Zelenka's got him locked up in the chair room running what seems like a ridiculous amount of tests. For the most part, Ronon's free to fill the time with whatever he can come up with, which isn't much. 

Mostly, he just wanders the corridors. Helps move supplies into the cafeteria. Stays to watch them, and a few dozen personnel, get beamed up onto a ship that's so high above the world there's no seeing it from here. It's the sort of thing he wishes John's magazines would've covered, at least enough to give him a mental picture of where all the people are going. 

The last group has just flashed out of existence when McKay appears at his shoulder. 

"Ah. Hello. You got a minute?"

Ronon follows him back to his office. Through a glass door, he catches sight of the chair room, sees John bathed in blue light, reclining in the chair as Zelenka flits back and forth across a bank of monitors. John doesn't notice Ronon, though, doesn't open his eyes, and McKay's starting to talk, so Ronon probably needs to turn around.

"We've gone over the data, and fixed on a good location for your team."

McKay isn't intimidated by him, barely even notices that he's there as he talks. 

"When Sheppard fought the wraith-"

"What wraith?"

"The wraith that... a few months back? McKay frowns. "You don't know?"

"He never said anything."

"Oh." McKay seems honestly surprised, straightening the suit coat he's got on over his shirt. "Ah, well. Yeah. Hmm. How much _do_ you know?"

"The wraith are coming."

McKay rolls his eyes. "Yes. Very illuminating. I mean. The wraith that was here."

"The one I killed?"

"The one _Sheppard_ killed."

"What?"

"Okay," McKay looks pleadingly at the ceiling. "What the hell have you guys been talking about, anyhow? I mean, you're buddies, right? Anyway. A few months back, a wraith crash landed here on Earth. The one you fought was an import that we brought back from Atlantis. But there was another, a few months ago. We were hunting it down, our investigation merged with Sheppard's murder investigation."

"Murder?"

"Well, feeding, but to anyone who doesn't know about the wraith, which is, let's face it, most people, it looks a lot like murder. Hence Detective John Sheppard and his murder investigation. Anyhow, he found it first. Nearly got himself killed, but it was enough for our guys to come in and finish the job. Thing is, the wraith got a signal out. A beacon, pinpointing its location. That's how the wraith found out about our world."

"Okay." Ronon's too busy trying to figure out why John hasn't said anything to guess why McKay's telling him now, but from McKay's expression, it isn't the point right now. "So. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"No. I came in here to tell you that we've figured out where your team's going to be stationed when the time comes." He pulls a folder and a large folded piece of paper off the teetering stack on his desk, and hands it over. "Figured you might want to get the lay of the land, get your thoughts on it before we give it over to the troops, so to speak. Tactical advantage."

Ronon doesn't look at the folder, right now, his full attention's on McKay. "Why give these to me?"

"Because you've got more experience fighting wraith on the ground than anyone else here. I want to know if you think it's a defensible position before I waste my time justifying it to the grunts." McKay's smirking as if he's won something, but it's conspiratorial. It feels like there's supposed to be a compliment in there, somewhere, so Ronon flips the folder open.

"Aerial maps," McKay explains, nodding at the stack of sheets inside. "They correspond to the big topographic map, here." Leaning over his desk, he takes the large map back; unfolded, it covers his desk completely. "Figure it would be handy so you could check for vegetation, and the topo map doesn't show the roads." He frowns vaguely when Ronon doesn't respond. "You know how to read these?"

Ronon frowns as he stares at the concentric lines delineating shapes that don't make sense. 

"Ah. No."

McKay falls back into his chair with a sigh. "Wonderful. Okay. Geography 101..."

His words are blunt, and to the point, and startlingly decisive, compared to most of the people Ronon's met here. He's clearly got a fair amount of clout, if the military commanders intend on basing the entire operation off of his recommendations. As McKay explains the lines- elevation- and points out the key printed in the corner, Ronon realizes that McKay's not at all wary of him. He's talking to him like he would anyone, impatiently, with no regard for what might happen if they offend. 

It's refreshing. But it's not only that. Ronon had led squads on Sateda, once, but hadn't planned an operation since. There'd never been time, when he was running, and even if there had been enough, he wouldn't have had anyone to plan with. And as McKay explains the points marked on both the topographic an aerial shots, and the stack of paper and the maze of lines begin to sort themselves into some sort of system, there's this weird little sliver of himself that he thinks is waking up. 

He'd been running on instinct for so long, he'd forgotten entirely what it meant to _plan_. 

Part of him wants to go find John, tell him _I think I understand you people now_. Part of him just wants to rip the maps out of McKay's hand and _get on with it_. 

\--- 

His concentration's gotten better, though John suspects it's because he's too exhausted to track anything other than what's in front of him. As drained as he is, though, by the time Zelenka's satisfied that they're at a good stopping point, he's dead on his feet. It's nearly seven o'clock. 

Still, he can't help feeling let down when he finds that Ronon's not loitering in the hallway when he gets out. Swinging past the nearly empty cafeteria, and then barracks at the far end of the facility, proves equally useless, and it's probably just as well. John can't stop seeing the afterimages of thousands of drones floating towards ships. By the time he's signed out and stepping into the parking lot, they bleed into the sky above. 

It's not dark enough, yet, for stars, and there's too much light pollution even if it were, but as he heads towards his car and digs his keys out of his pocket, he lets the illusion ride. Subtle delusion's preferable to disappointment, anyway.

\--- 

 

Ronon rolls his shoulders, welcoming the ache and the stretch, and opens his eyes again to find John haggardly dragging his coffee cup across the cafeteria towards him. He's dressed for work, but looks like he'd just rolled out of bed. 

Refusing to wonder if he'll ever get to be there when it happens, he kicks out a chair for him.

"So," John accidentally jostles the table with his knee as he sits down. "Got done late, you were already gone. What've you been up to?" 

"Spent a while with McKay going over plans the operation. Had to go over all of it again with Woolsey and O'Neill." Ronon shrugs, aware of the drop in his voice as he continues. "Stopped by the lab but you were busy, so I went to eat with Teal'c, then we sparred out back. When we were done, you'd already signed out for the night.

"Sparring, huh?" John smirks. "That would explain the bruising." 

Ronon prods at his cheek. Teal'c's elbow had connected sharply enough that he'd been sent sprawling, but it looked worse than it was. "It's not too bad. Beats the hell out of sitting on my ass all night."

John nods, though it's probably not in full agreement, given the look on his face. There are things he'd wanted to tell him, yesterday, but they're not as pressing as he'd thought they'd been. "What about you?"

"Went home. Crashed the hell out. Think I'm still asleep, to be honest. Thankfully, I've only got like an hour's worth of stuff left to do in the chair today. At least that's the plan. Might be two, I don't know, but not too bad. I think they're worried that I'm gonna be too drained if I pull another full day in there."

Ronon observes the deep-set lines of John's face and considers asking him about the wraith he'd fought in the desert, but now doesn't seem like the time. Not in the middle of the bustling cafeteria, with people everywhere and three televisions on in the corners of the room, blaring their unceasing racket. There's too much distraction, here, too many eyes for the kind of conversation it would be. He considers John's words, instead. "They might have a point."

"They might," John cedes. "But it's all a bit overkill, anyway. I mean, Zelenka and McKay, they're smart. The brass probably needs them on a hundred different things right now. Getting ready for the actual fight, with the actual soldiers. Not hanging out here wasting all their time on the second stringer backup."

Ronon buries his sudden frustration with a shrug. It's surprisingly hard to do so. Whatever their part in this turns out to be, arguing about the way they're handling contingencies won't change anything. Apparently reading the irritation off Ronon's face, John sighs.

"I'm not saying otherwise. I just. I don't know." 

Ronon's trying to figure out what he's supposed to say when John suddenly straightens in his seat; turning around, Ronon sees why.

"Colonel," John says, as Mitchell shifts his trajectory towards their table, carrying his tray with one hand. "I thought you would've been gone by now. How's everything coming?"

"So far, so good," Mitchell's grinning confidently, nothing at all what he'd looked like yesterday when saying goodbye to Lorne. "O'Neill's dragged half of the IOA back to DC for some big meeting. Carter, Teal'c and I are under orders to hang out here until they get back, then we're off to Colorado." 

"Babysitting?" John waves a hand, inviting Mitchell to join them, and to Ronon's surprise, Mitchell sits down. 

John's Ronon's only friend- _maybe more_ , the thought escapes before he can shove it back- but Ronon's never seen him be particularly friendly to anyone else. The flash of jealously is startling, ridiculous.

Mitchell smirks, setting in on his toast. "Apparently the scientists prefer yelling at warm bodies to yelling over phone lines. Carter's down in the chair lab with McKay right now. You could probably ind your way down there with your eyes closed, long as you follow the shouting."

"Wonderful," John groans. His eyes flit to Ronon conspiratorially as Mitchell looks down at the orange he's peeling. This, Ronon realizes, is all about information gathering. "Can't wait. You have any idea what the meeting's about?"

"General state of readiness," Mitchell tosses the shredded peels onto his tray. "They're conferencing with the UN and every diplomat they've been able to get a hold of. Trying to coordinate something along the lines of a uniform governmental response should the situation be exposed publicly. No idea what that means practically, though. Contingencies, I guess." 

"Would've thought they'd already be in place."

Mitchell just shakes his head and drinks his coffee, but his thoughts are elsewhere. "I know, right?" 

\---

There's only so much reality to go around, John thinks, climbing out of the chair and into a world that seems more distant and ephemeral every time. He knows it's the tech, nothing more, but the connection he feels leaning back as the universe bursts into existence above him is all encompassing, thrumming into his brain like music. So when he leaves the lab, heads out into the corridors to find mundane reality carrying on without him, it takes him a few minutes to get himself up to speed. 

He still hasn't quite managed it by the time he arrives at his office. Checking his email seems an increasingly ridiculous task, but he supposes he should at least go through the motions before heading out to track Ronon down. 

He's relieved, five minutes later, when Ronon saves him the trouble, appearing in the doorway wearing gym clothes that he's gotten from somewhere and a skeptically dubious expression.

"What the hell's going on out there?" 

"What? I don't know."

"Everyone's freaking out about something called Gitmo. All afternoon"

Maybe it's the last vestiges of the chair-haze clinging to his brain, but he hears the word as an acronym, first. Another vague abbreviation for another protocol, or technology, or advisory committee that he doesn't understand. GITMO. _Gathering Information Through Massive Overreaction_ , he remembers reading on a bumper sticker somewhere.

"Guantanamo Bay?" John waves Ronon in, brings up his web browser, startled by the number of hits posted in the past half hour. "No way."

"So what is it?"

"It's closed." John starts clicking through links; they're annoyingly mirrored between each other, saying nothing more than that after a closed meeting with members of the Joint Chiefs, the UN's Security Council and various other officials, the President's ordered the immediate transfer of prisoners to mainland facilities, where international panels were already being formed to consider their cases. 

"This is huge," he says, suddenly remembering that he still hasn't explained anything, and that he really doesn't know _how_ to, and Ronon's still waiting. But he's got an idea. 

The televisions in the cafeteria are always on. One of the droning sets has got to be blaring the news out in something resembling a narrative fashion, breaking the situation down into its most basic components for the rarely informed. For once, it's exactly what they need. 

Leading Ronon down the hallway, it's plain that he's not the only one with this idea. Personnel have flooded the cafeteria, pausing in their preparations for the end of the world to watch the talking heads do their thing. Mitchell's nowhere to be found, but Teal'c nods at them both from across the room. Joining the back of the smallest crowd, they watch one of the reports, already in progress.

"...expect in the coming weeks is the reconsideration of several military disputes all over the world, as this decision is already bringing with it several political considerations..."

Ronon's arms are crossed skeptically, and maybe this wasn't the answer John was hoping to give him. 

"Short version," he begins, but it's mostly a false start. "You know how they kept you locked up for weeks?"

One eyebrow is raised in response. "Yeah?"

"You're not the only one. Guantanamo Bay- Gitmo for short- is where we've been keeping a lot of prisoners of war. Nobody likes the way they've been treated."

"Why not?" 

_Same reason I didn't like it when you were being indefinitely detained_ , John doesn't say. "Allegations of torture, mostly. The way the prison's been handled has been a clusterfuck from the start." Ronon's nod of understanding becomes one of greeting as McKay comes up to stand next to them.

"Congratulations," he says out of the side of his mouth, watching the news a moment more before turning to John. "Not to you personally, of course, but as the most proximal American in this part of the cafeteria, you're an adequate diplomat."

"Right. Ah. Thanks." John shakes his head, unable to block the bigger question from taking up all space inside his head. He can't help being skeptical. "Years and years, all that, and right _now_ , they decide to do this?" 

On the television, the scene's already cut away to a reporter standing in front of the capitol building. 

"...talking about declaring today a national holiday, though there's been no official word on this yet from congress. Regardless of their decision, many cities around the country, and around the world, have already begun to make plans to celebrate this historic event over the weekend." 

"Right now," McKay's mouth quirks into a grin as he rocks his head towards John, "I think they just needed the response." The tail end of his words are lost in the sudden surge of noise in the cafeteria around them, and John swivels back to the television to see why. Behind the reporter, walking down the capitol steps, surrounded by officials and secret service, are the President and Vice President. Behind _them_ , though, is O'Neill, his General's insignia just visible in the distance. It's when the scene changes, cutting to another camera, that John gets the entire story. Walking next to O'Neill, nearly lost in the throng of unimaginative suits, is Woolsey.

"Holy shit," John mutters, forgetting for the moment that he'd just been about to point out to McKay that this seems exceedingly huge to merely be a play for morale. Ronon's smirking at him, pleased, if a little confused himself; he's evidently choosing to go with the flow in the room even if he doesn't quite understand it. 

Entertaining the derailing thought of kissing him right now is understandable, if poorly timed. 

"...that's just developing now is the international response. While some are concerned that they likely represent little more than a show of good faith, as troops the world over have been ordered to maintain their states of readiness, cease fires have been already been declared in four combat zones as leaders meet to discuss the shifting political landscape." The reporter, a red-haired woman, glances off camera and frowns, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "I'm sorry," she shakes her head. "I'm hearing that the count's been updated to six." 

\--- 

"Words gone out on the international scene," John eventually finishes explaining, once they're done poking at bland plates of chicken and rice and are heading towards the back of the facility. "All the major players are on the same page now. They removed the distractions to focus on the fight."

"So why all the celebration, then?" If an army needed to fight, it didn't need a spectacle to allow it. 

"I don't know," John admits, following him outside, scanning the yard, though there are few people out here, just a few soldiers sitting around the table by the door, playing cards quietly. "And that's the part I don't get. Don't need a huge political scene if you're just trying to free up your troops to fight a different enemy." Snorting, he kicks at a rock, sending it sliding across the dusty ground. "Unless, I guess, you're getting ready to fight space vampires that nobody knows about. But there's got to be a better way, you know?"

"With you people, there almost always is," Ronon smirks. 

"True." 

It's quiet, here, nothing like it had been yesterday evening when he'd come out here with Teal'c. There'd been others, too, either training up or looking for a way to wind down, taking advantage of the break in heat that came with nightfall. A few of the guys had been tossing a football around, and the card game at the table had been far more boisterous. Now, though, the flood lights stretch out over a nearly empty yard. There's one woman, sitting motionless with her back to them, just past the edge of the floodlights and facing the distant hills.

He realizes he's staring when he John catches his arm, steers them off the trajectory that would lead to her. 

"She's praying. Or meditating. Don't know, but..."

Ronon gives it a few paces before speaking, following John's silence like a map. Keller, at lunch, had explained the flyers on the tables telling people that interfaith services were going to be offered tonight. "You ever try that?"

"Not for a long time," John shrugs. "You?"

"Tried," Ronon thinks back to his mother's sister's small house inside the sanctuary, and how bad he'd been at fighting sleep when she insisted she join him in meditation. "Never really had the patience. Why'd you stop?"

"Never really had the faith." 

They're out past the edge of the floodlights, now, far enough away from the facility that it looks depressingly small and functionless. A truck's headlights swing around in the lot before heading out towards the road. Once it's gone, everything is still. There's a part of Ronon that wants to look for cover, but nobody's hunting them, nobody's even _looking_ for them right now. Even so, Ronon can't stop checking over his shoulder before sitting down on the ground next to John, who's leaning back against his own arms and staring up at the sky. There aren't any stars. None at all. The thought that there are soldiers up there, on board a ship miles above the ground preparing for battle makes his jaws clench tightly, and maybe it's the same for John. It's a long time before either of them open their mouths. 

John manages first. "You get your marching orders yet?"

"Hmm?"

"When you're leaving. Did they tell you?" 

"Tomorrow morning, we're heading out to set up. What about you?"

"According to the sensors, they're going to want me ready to go by tomorrow afternoon. Told me to bring a toothbrush, 'cause it probably won't go down until late tomorrow night." He turns, squinting at Ronon through the low light. "You ready?"

"More than," Ronon finds a stray piece of grass and tugs at it. It's tough, doesn't want to release the ground. "Don't usually know when they're coming. Just that they are."

"Shit," John says, his head falling back against the ground. "This sucks, you know?"

"Yeah," Ronon looks down at him over his shoulder. "It'll be fine, though. They probably have all their guns online already. They're as ready as anyone can be."

"They'd better be, 'cause I sure the hell ain't, and if _they_ fuck up, and if _I_ fuck up, then you-" he cuts himself off, takes a breath, and Ronon's sure John's wishing he'd never said anything, but he can't pretend he's not listening.

"If it comes down to it, they won't get past me, okay?"

Rubbing at his face, John hits him with a level look, before reaching up to grab his shoulder, hauling himself upright. "I know, just. Look. Be careful."

"You first." Ronon grabs the hand that's grasping his shoulder, pulls it across until John's dragged with it, because shaking hands is how deals are sworn, here. John squeezes back, and neither of them let go. "What happened, before? When you killed the wraith."

The flinch in John's grasp is only faint, and followed by a low chuckle. "You heard about that, did you?"

"McKay told me."

"McKay lied." John sighs. "I'm a... I _was_ a detective, before all this. Investigated crimes. Murders, people killing people." John pauses long enough for Ronon to wonder what he's leaving out, but maybe he's just gathering his thoughts. "Was working this one case, a serial killer. Hadn't seen anything like it before, cause, _wraith_ , you know? Only he was disguising itself as a human, and... Shit, I played _cards_ with him. Like those guys back there." He nods back towards the table by the door. "Met Dr. McKay- they were already running their own investigation, trying to track him down. Told me everything, even introduced me to the wraith you killed." He shakes his head, smirking at the sky. "It _totally_ freaked me out, you know? I mean, _aliens_ , it's... it completely upended everything. But it didn't change anything. I couldn't deal, at all." 

Ronon frowns. The story's not going the way he'd thought it would, but he nods for John to continue. John doesn't start again until he's pulled his hand back. "I quit the force, packed up my car. Was leaving town, out on the road, going over it all in my head when it all started to make sense again. The stuff I'd seen, combined with what McKay had told me, I was able to figure out where the wraith would be. Turned around, started looking, following the power lines- the wraith was going to tap into the grid, see- and they led me right to him."

"What did you do?"

"Called McKay," John smirks. "Figured I could fill him in, get some pointers, maybe even get some backup, 'cause all I had was a gun and I knew that wouldn't cut it. Thing is, out here? In the desert? Phone service is spotty. The call dropped before I could give them a location."

"Shit," Ronon said, the anticipation thrumming through him even though the ending's a foregone conclusion. "So you went after the wraith?"

"I did. Which was stupid. Totally got my ass handed to me. Caught a bullet." he taps his chest with the side of his thumb, moving it like he's feeling the scar, there. "But the wraith caught a lot more of them, McKay had managed to figure out where I was when the call dropped, fighter jets were deployed. Them shooting the hell out of the desert was pretty much the last thing I remembered. And the wraith was still standing when I blacked out."

"They wouldn't have been able to kill it if you hadn't been there."

"They would've figured it out. McKay's just got this thing about me. Says he met an alternate version of me somewhere. Think maybe he's prone to confusing me with him. Or vice versa."

"Alternate version of you?"

"Yeah. From another dimension or universe or something." Ronon frowns him into continuing. "Apparently there are millions of them, and some look a lot like a lot like our reality, it's just that history plays out a little differently on all of them."

"You're serious?"

John shrugs, brushes the dirt off his hands. "Haven't thought too much about it. Finding out about aliens was weird enough." It's his mention of history playing out differently, though, and the sudden wrenching homesickness that it brings, that's got Ronon's attention. If there are enough of them out there, millions like John said, maybe there was one where Sateda was still alive. Maybe there were more. 

"Hey." He snaps out of his reverie when John leans in to see his face more clearly, but it's the touch on his arm that's anchoring him, it's John's shifting closer that's steering him back. 

If there are a million different universes, Ronon decides, enough of them that Sateda could still exist, then there are probably several more that are as messed up as this one. But maybe there's just enough good in them that this is happening there, too. 

John's mouth opens under his own when they kiss, and Ronon can't let him go, even when balance is lost and they're sprawling back against the ground. It's slow, though, careful. There's room to breathe, to shift, to get this one thing right.

Because theirs is the only universe- the only thing _in_ the universe- that matters right now, and it might not be here tomorrow.


	19. Chapter 19

_Today might be it. The last day. Ever._

Woolsey had checked in last night, instructing him to rest up, sleep in, tonight was going to be a long, hellish ride. 

"I don't want to see you there before noon," he'd said, and if his optimism had sounded forced, John hadn't been about to mention it. 

Watching the daylight spread into his bedroom, he's not certain he's slept a wink. He gives up trying around nine in the morning after several hours berating himself for not getting up in time to see the sun rise. It had seemed like the sort of thing one was supposed to do, their last day on Earth. It was right up there with getting blasted on tequila and screwing anyone you wanted, as far as final plans went. 

He hadn't actually given a damn about the sunrise, and the rest of it wasn't really an option. Stopping for a latte on his way to the facility is about all the grand final blowout he can afford. He throws a twenty in the tip jar, though, just in case, and spends the rest of his drive out feeling foolish and superstitious. 

If he'd slept in as late as he'd been ordered to, he would've missed Ronon completely. They're by the loading dock, shoving the last few crates of equipment into the back of the trucks. There's enough time to shake hands, wish Ronon luck, and wish for telepathy as Stackhouse gives the order to move out.

He's completely sideswiped by the anger as he watches the trucks pull out of the lot. Ronon's sitting in back; all John gets as they pass are the profiles of soldiers he barely recognizes. Once they're over the hill and gone from sight, there's literally _nothing_ here that he can be bothered to care about, right now. 

It takes him another five minutes to actually go through the doors to sign in. When he does, he does so with a grin, and pretends he hadn't just been standing in the parking lot contemplating climbing into his truck and driving off, too. Heading east, the way he'd always thought he would. 

He'd done that once before, with a bag full of cash and nothing resembling a plan. It had nearly killed him. Trying it again would just finish the job. 

\--- 

Ronon had woken when the others had, just before dawn, and he'd joined them for their morning exercises in the yard. The soldiers had sparred with a focus that would have surprised him, had he not known what it all meant, the urge to be ready for absolutely _anything_.

It's all becoming real, now. The last of them who'd been holding out had managed to understand it. The enemy was approaching the gate. This wasn't a drill. 

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he'd gone down to the mess. Markham and Stackhouse had tried to engage him in conversation as they ate, but had been hard to focus, hard to keep himself from staring at the door that he'd known John wouldn't be coming through. 

He'd spent the morning telling himself they'd said everything that needed saying the night before, and still hasn't convinced himself that he's not lying. 

There are rations and weapons and equipment that needs to get loaded into the trucks.  
Rifles and sidearms are passed around among the team, it's a little irritating that he's being given neither. He's already proven that he can handle a wraith without them, and if he'd had his choice, he'd be using a proper blaster, anyway. 

But it's clear. For all the recent attempts at friendliness, they might trust him when this is over, but they don't now. 

It's insulting. It's not at all unexpected. And anger is as good a weapon as anything they have on this world, anyway. 

So he's more than a little surprised when, once all the weapons have been doled out and checked off on Markham's clipboard, and the extra ammunition divided between the trucks, that Markham calls him over and hands him a hard black plastic case.

"What's this?"

"Open it," Markham grins.

Nestled into the gray foam padding is his blaster, a nylon holster wound tightly in the space next to it. The four strange devices in the row along the bottom, he realizes once he pulls one out, are charge units. 

"Our guys in R&D have been having a field day with this," Markham nods, and Ronon suddenly feels the weight of half a dozen sets of eyes watching them. "Couldn't replicate the firing mechanism, but they figured out enough to build some charge clips. The one that was in there was a little-"

"Dead," Ronon agrees, not knowing what else to say. Frowning, he glances up in disbelief. "You found it." He doesn't mean for it to sound like a question. It's not the one he thinks he wants to ask, anyway.

"Guys brought it through when they brought you through. Figure it might be more up your alley than the P90's," he nods down at his own weapon in the case at his feet. "Seeing as how we don't exactly have time to train you in. You remember how to use it?"

Ronon hefts it, checks the sights as he points it at a speck that could be anything out in the desert. The weight's right, though it feels top heavy without the charge mounted at the base. Resisting the urge to plug it in and test it is almost devastating, but it's probably not the kind of thing these people do in a parking lot, seeing as how they tend to put on headgear and goggles just to practice. 

He satisfies himself with spinning it once, then back again, before placing it back in the case. It's not until he tries to talk that he realizes he's laughing. 

"When we get out there, I'll show you," he closes the case carefully, as if now, after all these years of rain and mud and grit in the workings, a mild jostling proved any threat to the blaster at all. 

He's moving it over to the truck when he catches sight of John's truck pulling in, and considers dragging it out to show it off. 

It ceases to matter the moment he sees John's face. 

They wish each other luck, and if Ronon's hands feel too empty when John pulls away, at least he'll have the familiar weight of his blaster to replace it. 

He tells himself that it's enough. 

\--- 

Forcing himself to believe that he needs to be there, John spends most of the afternoon in the chair room as Zelenka and McKay uplink and test the chair's connections. For hours, he stares blankly at the computer screens, trying halfheartedly to will them into making sense. 

Ronon's team has probably set up camp already. Beyond that, it's hard to imagine what Ronon's doing, or even how he's getting along with the others. Not that it matters. Ronon hadn't been overly concerned with people's impressions of him when he'd been a prisoner, there's no reason to think it wouldn't go fine now. 

But right now, there's just nothing else for John to do. Which is why he's so relieved when, after an afternoon of McKay's endless litany of complaints and Zelenka's muttered cursing, he's relieved to be finally waved back into the chair and told to think of where he is, in the world. 

As he feels the chair connect, and the projection begins to hover above him, he notices that something's changed. There's a tension to the connection now, like it's wound itself just a bit deeper into his head. Like it's trying to hold his attention, keep him from being distracted. 

It's more comforting than he would've imagined. Zelenka and McKay's increasingly raised voices barely catch his attention. He glances away from the sky above him to see Zelenka storming off, talking darkly to himself in Czech. 

"Everything all right?"

"He thinks we're going to blow up the base," McKay shrugs. "He's probably wrong, but he should be used to _that_ by now."

" _Probably?_ "

"Yes, well. We'll never know without proper testing. Which is why we're going to test it now, if it's all the same to you."

"Live rounds?"

"The concept of _rounds_ is- you know what? Never mind. Just sit back and scan the sky."

The same astounding amount of junk and noise blares into sight above him. "Filter out the satellites?"

"Mute them, but don't disregard them completely. Plotting a trajectory through a major communications satellite wouldn't do us any favors. Lock onto the International Space Station." 

The hologram above him wavers for the briefest of seconds, and a few hundred pinpoints of light dim. As the image rolls above him, the space station magnifies and comes into clear relief. "Locking onto it's orbit. You want me to uplink directly again?"

"The key you've been using so far has been Tier One. You need Tier Seven this time."

"Password?"

"1643 1879 1968 42."

The numbers feel familiar as he concentrates on them in sequence, and as if the tumblers in a lock are falling into place, he feels the connection opening completely. With the station acting like a router, the images of nearly a dozen ships burst into view. "Got it," he says, though there's no need. McKay can see this as clearly as John can. 

"Okay," McKay mutters, moving back to one of the computers. "You normalized yet?"

"Done. Now what?" 

"The Dawson Research satellite. Burned out months ago. Another year or so and it's going to come down. Nice multibillion dollar boondoggle of a target if ever there was one."

A blink, and one of the satellites comes back into full view. "Locked on."

"Airways clear?"

"Yep."

"One shot only. Fire at will."

Taking a breath, he stares at his target. Letting it go, he thinks _fire_ , and he can feel it in his spine like a recoil when the drone is released. A terrifying twenty three seconds pass as it cuts a thin swath through the atmosphere and up and up and-

The explosion is completely silent, here, but incredibly vivid, and it leaves his skin tingling. He hasn't felt this awake in ages. Years, maybe. 

"We still here?" McKay sounds barely interested, as if what John's just done is unworthy of notice. A quick glance confirms it; his head's buried behind his screens again.

"Seem to be all in one piece."

"Hah!" McKay snaps his fingers happily. " _Knew_ it. Zelenka owes me fifty bucks. Oh. And you're all set to save the world, too," he adds, and John elects not to notice that it's done as a mere afterthought. 

John eats because he knows he should, and tries to take a nap in one of the vacant beds in the barracks. Though comparatively silent compared to the sensory overload he's acclimated to when sitting in the chair, some noise does filter in through the closed door. What little he manages to hear from the hallway is tense and quiet, like a hospital after visiting hours, though the sun's barely down. Panicked and peaceful and ghostlike. 

He's not nearly tired enough to sleep, anyway. 

It occurs to him that if he were a better person, maybe just a different one, he'd call his brother, say hello. Saying goodbye would be too obvious. But they're under a communications blackout anyway. Have been since yesterday. For hours, it seems, he casts his half-open eyes around the room, forcing them to the ceiling or the window down at the end whenever he catches himself looking too hard at any given bed and wondering if Ronon had slept there. He waits to be called into action. When it comes, he'll start living. 

For now, he just drifts, and tries not to think. 

\--- 

Ronon considers the scenery, what little there is of it, and scowls. There are a few hills that could be of tactical use should the need arise- he's already marked off three on the map that bear closer examination- but there's little by way of real cover in the immediate vicinity. It hadn't been surprising, back in McKay's office, but during the drive in, they'd passed at least a dozen better locations to make a stand. 

"So why'd they choose this place, anyway?" he finally asks Markham. 

"If the wraith are drawn anywhere on Earth in particular, this'll be it."

"Because of my tracker?" If that's the case, and if it's not already too late, they can easily set up somewhere that's more easily defensible. 

"Because this was the exact spot where the wraith was when it sent out a beacon announcing his- and Earth's- location."

This is where John had fought, though no signs remain. "There's nothing _here_." He grabs another case out of the back of the truck, props it against the bumper as he looks to Markham for explanation. 

"We scrubbed it a few months ago. Sheppard tell you about how it went down?"

"A little. Were you there?"

"Afterwards, yeah. Came out as part of the cleanup crew. Right over there's where we found Sheppard bleeding out," Markham grimaces as he nods to where the other truck is parked.

Ronon gives the spot Markham had indicated a wide berth as he hauls the case over to the tent Stackhouse is setting up, but he can't stop himself from looking for signs in the dirt. Markham hadn't been lying; the entire area had been scoured down to the sand. 

He avoids it on the next trip back to the truck as well, and afterwards, he's too busy learning the lay of the land to think about it. Maps are great, they're wonderful, but they can only do so much. 

When they search the area, at least, the terrain begins to reveal itself in a way that makes sense. There are six routes up into the hills across the road, two kill boxes he can use if he gets to them first, four workarounds to use if he doesn't. There are eight places to hide and wait, ten if it gets suitably dark, and there's one really nice stretch behind the crag to the east to use to double back if he needs to. 

Stackhouse had assigned the patrol rotation the moment they'd finished setting up camp, and were it not for the fact that they'd seemed as unenthusiastic about training him in on the computers as he'd been on learning them, Ronon might've found himself stuck in the tent, staring at screens instead of staring at the sky. 

The sun's been down for hours before he allows his thoughts to turn back to John. He's sitting cross-legged, back against the wheel of the truck and imagines that the ground beneath him is soaked in John's blood. His fingertips brush the dirt, as if searching it out, but they only come up dusty. There's no sign at all that John had nearly died out here, but with his back to the tent, looking out over the desert before him, it's easy to imagine how _alone_ he'd been when it had happened. 

He doesn't _have_ to imagine it, though. He'd been there himself, more than once. It's not the only thing they have in common, but right now, it claws strongest against the rest. 

Ronon turns whatever it is he's feeling into anger, then turns his anger into fuel for the fight, and wonders why it is that with everything that's happened, this is still where they've wound up. 

At least John's not alone, this time. He's not even going to be _fighting_ alone, there are ships up there and he'll probably have scientists looking over his shoulder, watching his every move. Ronon wonders if John knows they're there, when he's connected to the chair, seeing nothing but the galaxy fighting above him. 

He doesn't turn when Markham steps out of the tent. 

"You get a chance to test out your gun?" There's a dim flash on the slope across the way, but it's just Saunders and West, heading out on their patrol. 

"Yeah." The fact that there'd been nothing worth shooting goes without mention. "Works good."

Markham nods. "Stackhouse and Schweiger are monitoring comms. You and I are out on patrol when Saunders and West get back, so you should try and get some sleep while you can," he says. 

Ronon nods, leaning back against the side of the truck, and lowers his head until Markham leaves. Once his boots clear the side of the trailer, he opens his eyes again. Markham has a point. But the fact that there are other eyes out there, telescopes capable of seeing much farther afield than he can, doesn't diminish the impulse to keep watch on the skies. Anything else would be wrong. 

He's got five men with him. Good size for covert infiltrations, but awful, really, for mounting any sort of defense. It would be easier if the others had fought the wraith before; easier _still_ if they weren't there at all. More men on the ground, all too often, meant little beyond more bodies _hitting_ the ground. 

The surrounding terrain wasn't ideal, but he'd worked with _so_ much less. 

\---

There's too much light in the sky to the southwest, though, Las Vegas is always announcing its presence to the sky, brightly enough that spotting actual stars is barely possible, but for the last little while, fireworks displays have been turning the night into day. The noise- loud even over so great a distance- had been astounding at first, and had it not been for Schweiger poking his head out of the tent and grinning at the sight of it, he would've had his blaster set to kill in a heartbeat. 

Instead he watches as the blues and reds and golds flash out into white, floating for a moment in the sky before beginning to fall, and merely thumbs the switch on the side of his blaster rhythmically. 

They're starting up to the north as well, and they're beautiful. 

It's when they start up to the east and south that Ronon realizes that they're a distraction. Nobody would notice strange lights in the sky on a night like this.

 _It's starting._

Jumping to his feet, he dashes towards the tent to find Schweiger and Stackhouse bent over their computers. 

"We've got contact," Stackhouse says, glancing up only briefly. Schweiger doesn't look up at all.

"Anything coming through?"

"Not yet. Relay from the Daedalus says that the drones are just entering the arena now. Base confirms that Sheppard's engaged." 

Markham, Saunders and West come into the tent to crowd around Stackhouse's screen, where the battle- hundreds of miles away and above- is already underway. All they're really receiving here, though, are the transmissions from the ships' various system scanners, and their basic navigational positions. 

He doesn't understand most of what's on the screen. The others are fluent, watch the streaming data like it's television, and all Ronon understands is the white knuckle grip that Markham's got on the back of Stackhouse's chair.

 _We should be there,_ Ronon thinks, and spins his blaster in his hands just for the sake of doing anything at all. They're too far out of position, almost laughably so. 

The frustration is suffocating, but he forces it into something he can use, and it's enough to get him out of the tent again, back out into the night.

In the sky above, another shower of light explodes across the sky, all red and blue fading to gold, blending with the few stars visible from here. There are more flashes coming from the southeast, too, and at first, Ronon's not sure what he's seeing. Telling himself that he's hoping for a better look, he walks a few meters away from the tent, until he's passed the trucks and is heading for the road. 

 

The southeastern fireworks are nowhere near as awe-inspiring as the boisterous celebrations to the southwest, but looks can be deceiving, and he's struck dumb with the knowledge that right now, he might as well be their only witness. 

Those blasts, heading higher and higher until they disappear without fanfare, are the most important fireworks in the world. If anyone in the world is bothering to look, it's unlikely that they know their source or destination. 

He stands in the middle of the deserted road with his blaster in his hand, watching every steady flash curve through the atmosphere before fading. Awed, he refuses to blink. It's almost hypnotic.

Maybe not _almost_. He's jolted back to himself the third or fourth time Saunders' voice cuts in through his forgotten earpiece.

"Ronon, get your ass back here. We're heading back to the base. Something's wrong."

It's not until he's climbing into the truck that he glances at the sky again and realizes that the southeastern sky's gone quiet. 

That it's _been_ quiet, for several minutes now. 

\---


	20. Chapter 20

He's not the only one fighting this battle. He's just the only guy in the room and this is all really happening, just not here. 

In the back of his head, John knows it's not just a video game, but there's no smell of gunfire, no dust, no grit to fighting like this. His wide-angle view is too remote to catch anything more than the flashes of impact. He doesn't hear the creaking of twisting metal when the hull of the Prometheus is breached, but he knows- it's like instinct, or immediate recognition that he shouldn't have at all- when it happens. 

Another volley of drones arcs unerringly towards the wraith cruiser, impacting in a perfectly timed series that makes no sound, and there's no good reason whatsoever for him to be so damned _exhausted_ by all of this. 

The display flickers. John re-focuses. 

It's still not as stable as it had beeb when he'd started. 

The Al'kesh that had belatedly joined the fight, sending off warning alarms all over John's head until they'd proven themselves friendly, is dead in the water now, and tactically, sweeping off the fourth and fifth waves of darts that are peppering the burning wreck isn't the best use of the drones, but they're still evacuating through the gate, and Zelenka's worried what will happen if the ship blows completely while the wormhole's still active. Twelve more drones, enough to take out the hyperdrive of a wraith cruiser if the timing's right, are spent taking out nine darts. They're barely launched before he's got to turn his attention again to the hives that are attempting to flank the Prometheus. 

Its shields are holding for now, but it's still a relief when the SGC reports that the last of the survivors from the Al'kesh have made it safely through. 

John's forgetting to breathe, for longer and longer spans. It catches in his throat when he remembers, and there's a questioning noise from Zelenka, who is maybe only five feet away but seems much further. John's just forming the words to reassure him that everything's fine when the galaxy above him suddenly flashes to red.

"Zelenka," He's trying in vain to find something to point a drone at, but the color shift seems universal, an alert he doesn't understand, yet. "What's going on?" 

"Oh dear," Zelenka's muttering, and it's hard to tell whether he's talking to John or into the headset he's wearing. "I do not mean to distract you, Sheppard, but we've just lost communication with SGC."

It's surprisingly hard to keep the scene above him from blurring out in favor of a diagnostic scan, and the scant second spent refocusing is enough for the wraith to do some serious damage, blowing the Al'kesh to nothing at all. Thankfully, whatever's happened with communications hasn't impeded his access to the drone supply, and he manages to aim another volley directly into the dart bay of the nearest hive. 

The secondary explosions are impressive; it's the best hit John's made yet, though if Zelenka notices, bent over his computer screen and muttering to himself, he's not letting on. John tells himself that the dizziness he's feeling is exaltation. 

His next shot is overconfident, and goes wide. The drones have to curve through space and return to make their targets, and don't hit nearly as well as they could've- _should've_. And there are still more enemies floating above him than there are allies. 

Turns out, though, they're not just above him. Because for all Zelenka's Czech invective, some of it's starting to break through. _SGC facilities compromised. Engage beachhead protocols immediately_. 

The connection with the chair drops suddenly and John finds himself sitting up in a vertiginous haze before Zelenka can order him back. When Zelenka does glance back at him, he shakes his head, gestures back to the chair. 

"It is not under control but shall be. Clearing the sky will make it easier, possibly reduce number coming through." _Get back in the chair,_ he'd mean, were he the type to give orders comfortably. John obeys anyway. Leans back, feels the system winding through him again, welcoming him back. 

One deep breath- the dizziness hasn't faded yet- and he's back in the fight. 

\--- 

Once the last of the gear's been stowed in the back, Ronon swings into his seat and is pulling the door shut behind him when he catches a faint yet unmistakable streak of light in the southeastern sky. 

"You see that?" He wants to laugh, but not knowing the reasons behind the temporary cease fire, he's not about to make assumptions about its resuming. It does, however, go a long way towards fixing the plummeting sensation he'd been fighting as he'd helped load their essential gear back into the trucks. 

If John's still firing drones, he hasn't been killed yet. 

But they're still moving.

"Yeah," Stackhouse mutters, grinding the steering wheel to head out after West's vehicle, already swerving right off the gravel and onto the main road ahead. "Saunders, Markham. You got eyes on the sky over there?" He's talking into his radio again; Ronon realizes belatedly that they've changed frequencies and twists in his seat, gesturing to Schweiger to find out what channel they're using. 

"...but not all the ships up there have beaming capabilities," Markham is saying when Ronon's managed to lock onto the signal an eternity later. "One of the ones that _didn't_ took some damage, and had to gate the survivors down instead. Looks like the wraith got a lock on the connection and managed to hack it. Beachhead protocols have been initiated at the SGC, and there's no word on how many wraith made it through. Keep this channel open, I'll keep you apprised. Markham out."

"You guys hear any word on the ships?" Ronon asks the others as the road suddenly smoothes out below them. 

"Still doing what they can, I guess," West says. "Markham said that Sheppard's on it."

"So what are we doing?"

"What we got sent out here to do, only somewhere else. Soon as we're back, we're joining the strike force heading out to Cheyenne Mountain. Colorado."

All Ronon knows of Colorado is the Rocky Mountains. The terrain in the pictures had looked more to his liking, but it's irrelevant now. While the rest of the soldiers may have the knowledge, Ronon's lost what little tactical advantage he can use. 

Because of course the wraith wouldn't be interested in tracking down just one person in a world filled with billions. 

He's a little surprised that he's got enough pride about that to feel foolish, now.

"Got a little more from the base," Markham comes back on the line, and since Ronon's not eager to spend any more time with his own thoughts than he already has, he listens intently. "Said the chair was malfunctioning. Zelenka's on it, but McKay's been re-tasked, trying to shut down the gate remotely. Hopefully the drones will take care of enough business up there that one of the ships can spare some beaming capabilities, but fair warning, Air Force advises that we might be stuck with traditional transport."

"Shit. You think highway patrol's doing much tonight?" Stackhouse's glare over the road ahead intensifies, and Ronon's pushed back against his seat as the truck gathers even more speed. 

"Lookin' out for drunk driver's on the edges of town, assuring the conspiracy theorists that the lights that they're seeing are either fireworks or a meteor shower. Why?"

"Pedal to the metal, alright? Unless you want us bowlin' your ass over."

Even going as fast as they are, it takes nearly an hour to reach the base, and it's only the glinting of occasional drones streaking mutely across the sky that keep him from going out of his mind. His stunner flips from stun to kill to stun too many times to count, and it's all he can do to stop himself from opening the window and firing blindly at the sky in frustration. 

He's been ready to join in for _days_ , now, and wonders how much longer he has to wait. 

\---

John doesn't know anything, anymore, that doesn't involve the unending firing of drones, but gradually, with the Hammond doing most of the heavy lifting, so to speak, the last of the hive ships is destroyed. 

It doesn't feel like victory, though. The alarms are still ringing in his head; he feels them like lightening along his spine and the red that's been coloring his vision is blazing painfully out into white.

The wraith are everywhere and nowhere at all, _there_ but unreachable and he's trying to see past the ringing in his ears to find a target to _fix_ this but it's all falling away, crashing over him. 

And then John's not aware of anything at all. He doesn't even know that he's seizing. 

\--- 

Ronon finds the base in complete chaos, and he's been here before, getting swept up in the throng, dodging rushing soldiers and civilians as he tries to keep Stackhouse and Markham in sight. Keeping an ear out for a stray word that'll sound anything like orders or ideas or information, and hearing only panic. 

The one bit of information that filters through, as the crowd surges into the cafeteria, is that the wraith ships have been defeated. Nobody's celebrating, though. The next crisis- the _worst_ crisis, has only just begun. 

Craning his neck, he searches the crowd for any sign of Sheppard, not because he's actually expecting to see him here, but because if the space battle's been won, then there's a chance he's milling about, somewhere in here, on the edges of the crowd. 

"The Daedalus will be within beaming range in five minutes," a soldier Ronon doesn't know is standing on the table at the front of the room and doing his best to shout over the noise. "Anyone who's _not_ intending on beaming out for the SGC needs to be clear of the cafeteria before then, and anyone who _is_ needs to be ready for the worst." Ahead of him, Markham turns around and regards him with a grim smirk before nodding. _We're going. Hang tight_. 

Ronon can't hang tight, though. The chair room is only a half level down and around the corner. He can make it there and back in plenty of time.

He just needs...

He's moving before he's finished the thought with anything more than _John_ , whether it's to peer in through the doorway to find him still reclining in the chair, surrounded by scientists, or to pass him in the hallway just long enough to catch a few words of whatever John's got to be saying to whatever personnel need to be hearing it. There won't be any time to talk, though maybe he'll be able to grab his shoulder, congratulate him, fix him in his head before turning to head back up into the fight. 

There seem to be twice as many people, here, more than he would've expected given the crowd in the cafeteria, and it's all he can do to stop himself from blasting his way through them just to gain a few seconds, but their noise sounds panicked. Nothing at all like the bitter acceptance and the pre-battle chaos happening upstairs. 

They're talking about "heart rate" and "lost consciousness," and it's not until he hears, from startlingly close by, Dr. Keller's voice shouting- " _move aside, stretcher coming through_ -" that he realizes that this isn't what he'd thought this was. It's something he's known much more intimately, for years. 

This isn't a hospital, he reminds himself as he presses against the wall to give the doctors room, and this isn't Sateda. This corridor isn't filled with injured bodies trying to survive their last few minutes, and no explosions are going to come suddenly to rip anyone away right before his eyes. Which means he can open them. 

And if he'd waited just a moment longer, he would've missed John entirely. As it is, John's the one missing him. He's lying on the stretcher, his wrist grasped in Keller's too small hand as she rushes alongside him, and his eyes are closed.

There's no explosion after they pass.

Ronon tells himself that if John were dead, Keller and the other doctors wouldn't have been rushing as fast as they'd been. Has to convince himself that following in their wake won't help anything, but takes a few steps in that direction anyway. It's not until he bumps into someone- Dr. Zelenka- who looks as dazed as he feels- that he'd even done _that_ much.

"What happened?" Ronon asks, in case Zelenka's actually got a clue. 

"I don't know. He was in the chair, and fell into unconsciousness." The shrug that comes with the explanation is harried and apologetic, enough that Ronon doesn't bother pressing for more. "Hopefully the doctors will be able to tell us more very soon."

Ronon looks towards the doors at the end of the hallway, the ones John's just been wheeled through. It had occurred to him that they actually might lose the battle, but John wasn't supposed to be one of the casualties.

_He's not. He's fine._

The blaster feels heavy on his hip, like it's weighing him down to the spot, an unwelcome anchor, but there's nothing he can do here. He has to be upstairs, fast, if he wants to be somewhere where he _can_ do anything. 

\--- 

Though tension's dropped the volume on everyone's voices, the fact that they're all standing so close together, waiting to be beamed up by the ship, makes it easy to listen to the conversations around him. Nobody knows what they're going to find; everybody's speculating. 

Under the circumstances, it makes sense that nobody would be talking about what happened to John. He doubts most of them actually know, and wonders, quietly, how many of them would care if they did. 

It's unfair of him, but it doesn't change anything. 

"Radios on! Prepare for beaming," someone calls out over the crowd, and the room goes silent. A flash later, and it's empty. 

\--- 

Ronon's only on the ship for a few moments, long enough identify that he's standing in hangar that probably isn't always this empty and take in the smell of overheated metal, before the orders go out to ready all weapons and he's beamed again.

There's less than the space of a breath before the gunfire begins, and the outer edges of the crowd explodes out into the space they're in- some huge room that doesn't make any sense until he's moved with them, swinging up his blaster to shoot his first wraith he sees and dodge for cover alongside the edge of a large metal ramp. 

A sideways glance reveals a ring, though nobody's coming through it. The injured wraith drone coming around from behind it don't see him crouching, and goes down easily. 

"All right!" Stackhouse's voice comes over the radio and echoes off the walls as Ronon scans, counting the dead. Five of them, all drones, most likely there to guard the ring. The real action's still ahead of them, somewhere. "Gate room is secured! Kendall's team, make sure it stays that way, all other teams, spread out. It's not likely that the life signs detectors are going to work with all the shielded equipment floating around here, so stay on your toes. Keep in touch."

He's got no map of the SGC, and has absolutely no idea where he's supposed to be going, but that doesn't stop his feet from moving. Most of the squadron's heading up the stairs towards the most obvious connecting room, but West and Saunders are heading for the less obvious door in the corner of the room that leads into some sort of engineering corridor. 

McKay, upstairs with the others, comes on the line long enough to advise them to keep an eye out for anything that looks like wraith technology, because apparently he feels like stating the obvious. There's nothing down here, though, yet.

Fighting's just broken out somewhere above them, there's a brief flash of gunfire, then nothing. Five footsteps later, Ronon hears a faint noise coming from around the corner ahead, and he slips past West, nodding at it as he prepares to go through. 

There's a red haired man shaking his head, as if to clear it, as he pulls himself up to his feet at the bottom of the stairs, and his eyes go wide at the sight of Ronon.

"You all right?"

The man looks surprised, but some of the confusion leaves his face when he catches sight of West. Nodding, he rolls his neck. "You guys the cavalry?"

"Yeah," West says. "Seen anything down here?"

"The wraith were heading for the control room. I got bowled over at the top of the stairs when Dr. Lee-" He blinks, shakes his head again. "Doesn't matter. Think the wraith were more intent on moving up and out than down and nowhere."

"Good to know." 

Ronon begins to make his way up the stairs while behind him, West checks in via the radio. 

"Confirmed," Stackhouse replies, "keep looking." 

Another voice comes on the line. "We've got a bunch of dead wraith up here on level nineteen. Looks like our guys already did a fair amount here."

Up another flight of stairs, and all Ronon's really learning is that McKay's locked onto a friendly radio signal and they're being ordered to hold tight. It doesn't stop West and Saunders from moving, either, but they're listening carefully.

There's a dead wraith lying on the next landing, and Ronon's looking hard enough that when the radio chatter picks up again, he nearly flinches.

"Hello? This is Daniel Jackson, and I really hope you guys can hear me."

"Dr. Jackson, this is Stackhouse. What's the situation, here?"

"We've got the last dozen or so wraith trapped on level seventeen, but they're working on opening up the main elevator shaft. Carter's working on resetting the base's LSD from up top, but the wraith got in a lucky hit when they attacked the control room. We're about to lose them. I don't suppose you've got enough guys with you to cover the doors on every floor?"  
"I can't see why they'd head back down when they've been moving up all this time," Markham points out. "We only really need to cover ten floors or so."

"Which means we need to get into position before they do," Stackhouse says. "Move out, everyone, double time."

"Where's the elevator shaft?" Ronon murmurs to West, who frowns in thought, then nods at the door a few feet past the dead wraith. "Through there, down the hall, and to your right"

"We're only on level nineteen," Saunders points out, grabbing him by the arm. "They won't be coming back down."

"What floor is the elevator stopped on?" Ronon speaks loudly, and it's obvious from the confused silence on the line that nobody was expecting him to. He swings open the door and scans for movement, but there's nobody here. 

"They defaulted to level 28 when we went into lockdown," Jackson says. "Why?"

"Means it won't be in my way," Ronon grumbles, and it looks like Stackhouse and the others have finally gotten over their radio silence, because the chatter on the line is surging madly. Several are arguing, a few are confused, and Stackhouse is furiously trying to get his men back on track. 

"The orders stand, everyone. Keep moving, and Ronon?"

If the radio falls out right then, he won't be able to hear him finish. West smirks, pocketing it for him, but Saunders is shaking his head in warning. 

"If they're moving up, they won't be looking down," Ronon shrugs. "Might at least buy some time for you guys to get into position." What he doesn't say is that once he's got one or two shots off, at best, there's nothing stopping them from throwing anything down the elevator shaft in hopes of taking him out. 

Saunders nods reluctantly, then looks at West. "We gotta go." 

"You sure you don't want any help?"

"I've got this." Moving through the door, Ronon finds himself in another corridor full of what seems to be laboratory equipment, and the open doorways reveal much more of the same. As he makes his way, blaster trained on every angle, he searches for something he can use.

He'd thought about this, often enough, locked in his cell. What he would need to get the doors open. They're electronic and locked down, no doubt, but they're still made of moving parts. He should be able to pry it open easily enough. 

The first doorway on his left is a closet, filled with supplies, and he's contemplating breaking down the two-wheel cart- it looks sturdy enough, but unfortunately that means it's too sturdy to break- when he catches something better out of the corner of his eye. 

There's a pry bar, sitting in a plastic bucket in the far corner with the brooms and mops. 

It's startling, how well prepared these people are, but the wraith had gotten around them, so far. There's no time for amazement right now. Grabbing the bar- it's satisfyingly heavy, he hurries onward, slowing only when he reaches a corner. The elevator's right there. 

Holstering his blaster, he sets to prying apart the doors. 

They don't give. They're stronger than they look. Of course they are- if they weren't, the wraith would probably already be through.

He's trying again, though, the exertion taking far too much out of him when the doors suddenly slide open. If he'd been leaning wrong, he would've fallen, but the only casualty here is the dent in the wall that the pry bar makes when it's flung wide. 

Ronon freezes, listening. He can hear noise echoing along the shaft but can't exactly place it. It's muffled, though, probably bleeding through doors on the upper levels. 

Taking a steadying breath, he readies his blaster and risks a look up, finding nothing but darkness. The only light that's here at all is pouring in from his doorway. There's an emergency ladder a few feet to his immediate right, and nothing at all for cover. The wraith will pick him out easily enough the moment he makes a shot. The best he can hope for is to climb high enough that the light doesn't catch him. 

He reaches out to the ladder, jerking the frame of it once or twice to test it's sturdiness, before adjusting his grip and swinging out onto the rungs. 

There's a startling noise coming from the wall in front of him, but it's just the elevator door closing again, probably automatically. 

The shaft is in complete darkness, now, and he begins to climb, trying to measure the distance he's covering by the steps up the ladder he's taking, but he doesn't know how high the ceilings are, here- the 28th level's ceiling had been far higher than that of the other levels he'd seen. Gradually, he's becoming aware of the noise, catching a very human shout of _something_ on one of the levels, and the ever-growing banging and thumping coming from level seventeen. 

Carefully, he reaches one hand out to feel for the wall in front of him. Trying to gauge the distance between the ladder and the side of the shaft. If he's going to be firing, it'll be easier if he's not expending most of his energy just to keep his balance, but there's only a handspan of space or so. He won't fit, entirely, but he can wedge most of himself in. Free up his shoulders and arm to aim and shoot. 

He brings his left arm around the bar, gripping the rung from the other side, before swinging his left leg around to find purchase. From here, he can lean against the wall long enough to reverse the grip of his right hand, and awkwardly, his right foot. A few moments of shifting proves that he's got some vertical- if terribly awkward- range of motion here, should he need it, but mostly, he's as small a target as he can be, down here. 

He unholsters his blaster and readies it, resting it against his knee for the time being, until the grinding of metal starts to echo off the walls. From nothing comes a slit of light, and then it's pouring into the shaft, bright enough that for a moment, he's positive he's going to be seen at first glance. 

There's no first glance, though. The wraith are starting to peer into the shaft, their attention focused firmly on what's above them. He can feel the vibrations of the first one stepping onto the ladder, after a moment, and then another. He forces himself to wait- increasingly mindful of things like the strength of metal and the likelihood that they're only being held to the wall by handfuls of screws- until the fourth wraith steps out. 

And he opens fire. The fourth wraith, then the third fall away from the ladder, he can feel the air move as they pass. The next wraith falls much closer, nearly catching him in the knee hard enough to dislodge him. It's the final wraith on the ladder, though, who's prepared, who starts firing back at him. 

All the wraith has to do is fire straight down, but aiming while trying not to fall off a ladder is just problematic enough that it's shots go wide. 

The bloods pounding in his ears and he wants to _move_ \- this was a bad idea- but he's got to wait for it. 

After a moment, a drone pokes his head out, aiming carefully down. Ronon takes it and the wraith on the ladder out with two quick bursts. 

He's already nearly halfway there, if Jackson's math was correct. 

There's a lull, after the bodies fall past him, and he uses it to force himself to breathe again, to adjust his balance. Using the light coming through the open door, he can see hints of movement, and when the shades begin to coalesce into actual shadows, he tightens his grip on the ladder and sets his aim. 

The shadows disappear entirely in the brightness an instant later, and realizing that they've just lit a flare, slits his eyes until he's mostly blind anyway. As soon as the light falls past him, he opens his eyes, finds a target, and fires. 

His fingers scream out when a boot catches him as the wraith falls, startling enough that he doesn't know how to channel it into something he can use before the first shot cuts far too close. Right now, it doesn't matter that they're only using stunners. If he takes a direct hit, he's as good as dead. 

With the flare below him radiating up into the shaft, even this dimly, it's hard to get a good read on the shadows from here as he readies himself for the next round, but he's not ready for the sound of an explosion reverberating so sharply through his skull. 

Instinct sends him slamming against the wall fast enough that he loses his balance, even wedged in here like this. Much worse, though, is the realization that his reflexes aren't quick enough to catch the gun he's dropping, not if he doesn't want to go falling after it. 

He grips the rail of the ladder as tightly as he can, scanning himself for injury as debris wafts down over and past him. 

Several moments pass while he breathes through the dizziness and tries to listen through the ringing in his ears. He's not even sure when it is that he realizes that there's someone looking down at him through the opening above, and even then, it takes the space of two breaths to realize that it's not a wraith, it's _Teal'c_. 

\---

By the time he' unwinds himself and makes it up the ladder, he's exhausted, though he doubts anyone other than Teal'c, who's propping him up under the guise of leading him through the crowd, really notices. There are as many people here as there'd been in the cafeteria when they'd beamed out, maybe more, and they're all dashing back and forth with weapons, equipment, and talking into their radios. 

"When it became apparent what you intended to do," Teal'c's saying, catching Ronon's drifting attention, "modifications to our plan of attack were made. A fact you would've been better prepared for had you not dropped your earpiece." His grin is knowing, however, and he leads him off to an underpopulated span of wall to get his wits about him.

There's no way of telling what this level of the facility is meant for; even before the explosion that, looking at it now, had taken out the door leading into another of their unending corridors, the rest of it seems to be storage, maybe, or a decommissioned workspace. Maybe another laboratory. More baffling is the activity all around him. On one level, he knows what it is- the first phases of cleanup following a battle, but he doesn't understand it on a practical level. 

Teal'c had told him to sit, though, and wait, and for the moment, he's happy enough to do so. 

\--- 

Between the snatches of conversations he hears, the tirade he gets from Stackhouse, the doctors who, for once, are more interested in what happened during than they are in _studying_ him, and the friendly overtures of a black-haired woman whom he's too baffled to understand, he manages to figure out the details of the invasion. 

The wraith he hadn't killed in the elevator shaft had been dispatched quickly once the door had been broken down. And this was after they'd already killed off several dozen before Ronon and the rest of the reinforcements had come in. 

Even if one squadron of wraith _had_ managed to make it to the top of the complex, it's a little humbling that they'd managed so well. If Ronon feels like gloating over the fact that he'd taken out more individual wraith than the rest of his squadron combined, it can wait until his ears stop ringing and his fingers stop hurting. And it would help if he hadn't lost his gun. _Again_.

Besides. There's only one person he really feels like talking to, and he's not here. 

\--- 

There's morning sunlight streaming in through the cafeteria windows when Ronon's beamed down with the others, and he looks completely baffled at the sight of it. He also looks exhausted. Then again, he hadn't spent the past ten hours in a near-coma brought on by psychic overload, courtesy of a piece of over-engineered _furniture_. 

"So," John's voice is more of a croak than he wants it to be when he stands up and meanders into Ronon's unseeing path. "I take it we're not all about to be eaten by space vampires?" 

It's a stupid joke, but Ronon's laughter is bright and sudden, and he grabs John and hugs him, right there, in front of everyone. Glancing around, though, they're not the only two. Apparently fending off an alien invasion puts people in a celebratory mood. 

"You're okay?" Ronon's voice turns sharply as he pulls back to examine him. "I saw you- you were being wheeled off by the doctors, and-"

 _Shit._ It's not exactly what John's been wanting to hear. 

"Yeah, I. They're still trying to work out what happened, exactly, but it's looking like the connection between the chair and my _brain_ is a lot stronger when we're not just running drills. Keller sprung me a little while ago." Leaving out the fact that she'd done so only reluctantly seems like the wisest choice. Ronon's eyeing him skeptically enough, though, that turnaround is fair play. "What about- how're you doing?"

"Hungry. And I probably need a shower." What he _needs_ , John thinks, is a few hours of sleep, but Ronon's not the type to admit it even when it's true. 

"I can hook you up with all... _two_ of those, if you want." Digging his keys out of his pocket, he's momentarily thrown at all this. He should be too tired to be this nervously excited. "Unless you'd rather stay here." 

\--- 

As soon as they've cleared the hill and put the facility behind them, John pulls over, trying not to smirk at Ronon's mildly annoyed confusion. 

There's a lot they've got to talk about, and now's not the time, but he's had a while to figure out the important parts. "Thanks for saving my world," he says, leaning sideways in his seat and grinning when Ronon gets with the program and just _kisses_ him, already.

Ronon's asleep, his head against the window, five minutes later, and there's still a long drive to get to the apartment, but this, John thinks, is starting to feel a lot like home. 

He can pretend as much, at least, for the next twenty four hours or so.


	21. Chapter 21

As nearly perfect as yesterday was- it's hard to top saving the world, pancakes, and spending the afternoon drowsing naked in bed- the thin vein of tension that neither of them had felt like talking about has spread out over everything. 

They'd made love again this morning, but it had been quiet, slow, more cautious than it needed to be, and John had found himself wanting to blurt all sorts of nonsensical grand statements that wouldn't make things easier. 

It's Ronon, this time, who tells him to pull over on the way in to the facility. They kiss only briefly, and John knows what he's doing, at least, even if Ronon's eyes are too shuttered to confirm that he's pulling away, too. 

Yesterday they'd saved the world. Well, they'd helped. Today, probably, some time soon, Woolsey will be making good on his promise to let Ronon return to Pegasus. And Ronon, not really having anywhere else to go, will leave. It's been coming down the pipes for ages, now- hell, John had _fought_ for it- and the chaos and madness of the past few days doesn't change anything. 

He'd been on the verge of asking him about it last night, before Mad Marlene had come looking for her dead cat again. Somewhere in the midst of trying to get her off of his doorstep and tripping over the loose corner of carpeting by the door, he'd realized _this is what my life looks like. Damaged goods and all._.

And even if it had looked less unappealing to Ronon right at that moment, it doesn't change the fact that John's not sure he has the right to ask him to stay. Maybe it's the fact he's still feeling so wiped from the chair, but it doesn't seem that there's really all that much he's got to offer beyond aching bones and a ratty carpet. 

But it seems like Ronon's heard the question anyway, here this morning, sitting across the cafeteria table and picking quietly at his breakfast. 

Finally, what John's been dreading happens, only it doesn't happen the way he's been expecting. For one, it's about half an hour too early. And it's not just Ronon's name that's being summoned to Woolsey's office. _Immediately_.

Woolsey's standing with Ambassador Shen and- _shit_ Mr. Coolidge. They're gathered around the flatscreen monitor as they enter, and Woolsey waves them to join them while Coolidge talks angrily at the two women on the screen. Dr. Weir, John recognizes, but the other woman is dressed nothing like her, though she regards the camera with a contempt matching Weir's.

"If Atlantis had done a better job, they wouldn't have _gotten_ as far as they did, Ms. Emmagen."

John gets a read on her expression just as it shifts from serene to poisonous. "And I assure _you_ , if we'd had the personnel and technology we've been requesting, for _months_ , I might add, this would _not_ have been the case." 

Weir nods, quirking a brow as Ms. Emmagen stalks off screen. "The only reason we are still standing, right now, is that Atlantis was _not their intended target_. And seeing as how we're exposing ourselves to much greater risk due to our continued association with Earth, we're going to require enough support to make it worth our while." 

"I can't believe you're blindsiding us with this _now_ , of all times," Coolidge shakes his head and sneers at the screen. 

"On the contrary," Weir smirks. "What better time could there possibly be? But not to worry, of course there are details that need to be arranged, and I do understand what's happening on Earth. But we _will_ be talking about this, Mr. Coolidge. Very soon. So. Moving on to today's agenda, seeing that our guests of honor have arrived and that we're down to, what, twenty nine minutes before the gate shuts down?"

"Yes, and sooner than you may think" Woolsey smirks at the confusion Weir's quick to mask. "Thank you. As we've discussed, arrangements have been made for Ronon Dex to return to the Pegasus galaxy via Midway." 

"So I've heard," Dr. Weir says as Ronon steps forward. "I've been made aware of your situation, Mr. Dex, and would like to formally extend an invitation for you to stay here with us at Atlantis, if you like. You're under no obligation to do so, but if you're interested, we think we've got a place here for you."

John's at the wrong angle to see Ronon's expression without being obvious, so Ronon's response, a nod and a gruff thanks, could mean anything. 

_He hasn't committed to anything yet_ , John's trying to convince himself. He's so busy doing so that it's not until his name's been repeated that he looks up at the screen. 

"What? Oh. Hi."

"Hello Mr. Sheppard, it's nice to see you again."

"You too," John says, glancing at Woolsey. "Though I don't... really know why you're seeing me." 

"I'll admit that this is a last-minute addition to our agenda, and, of course, nothing discussed at this time needs to be decided immediately" Woolsey says. "But in light of the situation as it stands in Pegasus, we'd like to discuss the possibility of your joining the Atlantis expedition."

"What?"

"We need help," Dr. Weir says. "Yours, if you can give it. We've got a city full of Ancient technology and few people with genes strong enough to run it. This isn't only the chair-"

Ronon's growl is startling. "That chair nearly _killed_ him."

"I understand that, but-"

"McKay's reported that the glitch the other night was mostly resultant of the requisite merging of Earth and Ancient technology," Shen cuts in. "I can show you his findings once we're done, here, if you'd like."

Ronon nods, the frown still creasing his face, but he holds his peace for now. 

"Thank you, Ambassador Shen. As I was saying, it's not just the chair, but our navigation, shielding, and much of our life support systems that are at stake, here. We've been getting by, but if, for example, we had someone of your caliber on board, we might've been able to destroy the wraith fleet before they even left our galaxy. I realize that it's a lot to ask, and that leaving home for another galaxy is a massive undertaking, but I'm truly hoping that you'd consider joining us." 

"Can I think about it?" 

"Of course." Weir smiles, glances to the others. "If that's all for now, it looks like we've got about two minutes before the gate shuts down. Anything else?"

"No. Thank you, Dr. Weir," Ambassador Shen nods.

"Thank _you_ , all of you," comes the reply, and John's not part of this, not really, but he's pretty sure her eyebrows translate into _except you Coolidge, you're a complete bastard_ as the video link cuts out. 

Once it's shut off, and they're all awkwardly standing facing the wall in Woolsey's office, John starts to wonder what they're supposed to be doing now. What, exactly, it is that he's supposed to be thinking. 

Ronon's regarding him steadily out of the corner of his eye, though, and he's got an idea.

\--- 

Coolidge and Shen slip out of Woolsey's office quietly, and it feels like Ronon's supposed to be aiming at something right now, only he doesn't know what. 

"I wanted to thank the both of you," Woolsey says, seating himself behind his desk. "For everything you did yesterday, regardless of how foolish I personally find exhausting oneself to the point of unconsciousness, or climbing up an elevator shaft." John, at least, looks like he's trying to pay attention. It's all Ronon can do not to roll his eyes. He wants to leave this place- this office, at least, get some space away from the oppressive book shelves and the heavy furniture. Rehashing yesterday, honestly, isn't even near the top of the things he needs to think about. 

"That being said, this isn't my first rodeo, and the two of you have carried yourselves in a manner far exceeding not only my expectations, but your training." Ronon blinks, and Woolsey sighs. "But I can see that I've been upstaged by Weir's offers, and didn't really have anything else that can't wait, so if the two of you would like to go and put some thought into what you'd like to do next, I'll be ready to hear your answers."

"Thanks," John says, eyes flashing to Ronon again before he heads for the door. 

"Thanks," Ronon adds, though he's not even thinking about it as he follows John into the hallway. 

"What-" He's just short of catching him by the arm when John shakes his head.

"Not right here," John explains with a shrug, and they head for the closest door that will get them outside. 

It's _hot_ out here, and blinding, and there probably aren't eyes on them right now but they walk a good distance before heads around to find a sliver of shade on the side of the building. 

"This is wild," John says, staring at the low distant hill that's the only scenery from this side of the building. "I wasn't. I didn't. What do you think?"

"About?" 

"Heading to Atlantis."

"You thinking about it?"

"Yeah," John smirks, then searches the sky- there's little else out here- for words. He sounds surprised when he continues. "I actually am. You?"

Ronon sighs, leans against the building. "This was never my home," he says, after digging for the words. He doesn't bring up that he hasn't had one in years, the next thought that comes to mind, but he's considering _I'll stay if you ask me to_. What he _does_ manage is the truth of it. "I don't know what I'd do with myself, here. Out there?" Ronon shrugs. "The wraith are still out there." 

"That's hardly a selling point," John smirks. "But it's not like I'm not going to spend the rest of my life being paranoid about them if I stayed here, either."

"The chair sent you to the hospital. An entire city of technology like that-" he breaks off, knowing that it's coming out all wrong- he's not actually trying to talk him out of it, only maybe he is- it would be safer for him, here, and that can be enough. 

"I'd be careful."

Ronon considers him. " _How_ careful?"

"As careful as you are when you're fighting the wraith," John deadpans. 

"That's not careful enough." Something in this is finally loosening the knot in his stomach, and he's grinning despite himself. "It'd be more fun with you there, though."

"Yeah. So." John sighs, squares his shoulders before turning towards him. "I'm up for it, if you don't mind me tagging along."

"Just like that?" Ronon searches John's eyes for any hesitation, any wariness at all, but it's the clearest they've been all day. It's exactly like they'd been yesterday, perfect, but he still needs to hear him say it, needs to believe that he means it.

"Pretty much, yeah." 

It's not the grandest of declarations, but it's honest- it's _John_ , and Ronon's heart's shooting into his throat right now, because the scale of the statement doesn't matter, just the meaning. 

They'd kissed on the way in this morning, careful and quiet and though they hadn't said it, it had felt like goodbye. 

He's never going to kiss John like that again. 

Starting now. 

\---

_The End._


End file.
